


On Time

by maybe_not_today



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Omnic Crisis, Post-Omnic Crisis, Pre-Omnic Crisis, Semi-AU?, Some Cursing, beware of ellipses, bit of blood, bits of humour, death duh, how do you punctuation, minor OCs - Freeform, we need more lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9812852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybe_not_today/pseuds/maybe_not_today
Summary: Death never asks before a visit.In the midst of personal and international struggle, a young engineer is forced to become more than a soldier and a hero. A young girl has to face loss and accept her new life. Both will grow as people, becoming friends, family, and eventually colleagues.An episodic tale starting before the Omnic Crisis and continuing throughout the lives of Angela and Torbjörn.





	1. Happiness

**Author's Note:**

> The notion that Torbjörn and Mercy are related is certainly not a new or fresh idea/head canon, just one that I haven't seen explored in depth. (Apologies if someone has already written something similar.) I personally am quite captured with this take and wanted to try my hand at writing an awkward father-daughter kind of thing between the two characters. Also, Torbjörn deserves more love, come on.  
> I'm planning on following Angela through the years, in a mix of established canon and speculation, as I'm not patient enough to wait for the original IP creators' story.  
> Most characters will make an appearance at one point or another. This isn't a 'ship' story, though I'm not completely averse to romance. Still, I suck at writing it. We'll see. Next, I'm not a skilled enough writer to pull off good accents, so bear with me and try to imagine them.  
> Lastly, I'm always open for constructive criticism, so if something is bothering you, do let me know. I wanted to try a new writing style, way out of my comfort zone and it'll be interesting to know how I'm doing.  
> Cheers!

2039

 

“A bit clunky, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t bother looking at the taller man peering over his shoulder. It matters little what another member of the Guild thinks, as long as his projects get the attention of the top. Though few others have bothered or dared to talk to him ever since he set foot through the doors of the renowned Ironclad Guild.

Not tearing his attention from his project, he decides to humour Sven.

“My designs have soul. ‘Sturdy’ is the right word for them.”

Still, he writes a memo at the corner of the blue sheet to try and make the torso less… intimidating. It would be somewhat impractical for the machine to become too top-heavy. Building a highly mobile bipedal construction is challenging, after all. 

“What’s it supposed to be anyway?” Sven circles around and leans over the blueprint. He scratches his cleanly shaven chin and frowns when he sees the scribbled notes. “Is this an evacuation unit you’re working on? I’d hate to disappoint you, but the guys at robotics…”

Torbjörn’s scold deepens and a rumble of disapproval resounds from the back of his throat.

“Those _idiots_ want to build a machine that can operate autonomously. My construct will be remotely controlled, by a competent person.” He draws a few finishing touches to the second draft and leans back in the chair, satisfied at what he’s seeing. “Look, I’ve even added a scaled down mining drill and a plasma cutter here, for clearing debris. You can’t trust a _machine_ to handle such dangerous equipment! There are tons of variables to consider: structural weaknesses, survivors, potential fallout… No, I’m not willing to sacrifice the remote-command hardware to replace it with a compact,” he sneers as he spits it out, “artificial brain.”

The other man lifts his hands, smiling light-heartedly. “I’ll stop you right there. It’s too late to listen to your AI-hate speeches.”

The digital clock above the door of the common workshop reads 23:52. All desks and projects of his colleagues are left locked and abandoned in the dark, resting for the night along with the engineers. Torbjörn’s eyes return to his own working space, illuminated brightly and beckoning him to start on a new design. He is tired though.

“Fine, fine. Why’d you come anyways? Hoping to get some inspiration for your machines?”

Torbjörn pushes off the chair with a huff and stretches to ease the tension from hunching over blueprints all day. He will need to hit the gym in the morning.  

“No, no, tanks are more in my purview.” Sven assures him in his carefree manner and pulls at his wrinkled shirt. “I’m just missing my usual drinking company. What do you say? I’m sure we can wrangle out a bottle of akvavit, or at least some good vodka from Jesper.”

If there is an ideal way of ending a long day of work, that is relaxing with a good drink or two. Maybe more. He grins, his sour mood forgotten.

“Sure, let me just-”

He is cut off by the buzzing coming from the coat carelessly thrown on top of a pile of boxes. It is probably his mother. He loves the woman to bits, but she has the tendency to panic if she hasn’t heard from him in more than three days and he doesn’t want to deal with her nagging at the moment. With a sigh he apologizes and rummages through the pockets until he fishes out his phone. The wide screen displays one of the last names he expects to see.

“Hello?”

“Torbjörn!” The voice of Stella’s husband rings excitedly from the other end and Torbjörn flinches back a bit. He isn’t even that close to the man, what could he want?

“Yes, the one and only. What’s up?” He switches to English, as he is not sure if the other man’s Swedish has improved any; his own German sure hasn’t.

“Oh, Stella wanted to call herself, but she’s tired from the birth and…”

Torbjörn almost drops the phone, his face twisting between expressions of confusion and impulsive joy.

“Is she okay?” He asks before he can stop himself.

“Yes, yes! It all went surprisingly well!”

 Of course she is alright, otherwise her doting husband wouldn’t sound like he has himself assisted with the birth.

“Oh but, Torbjörn, the baby! She’s…” Suddenly the proud father’s voice hitches and then goes quiet.

“The baby what? Hey, you still there?” Torbjörn’s chest tightens as he stiffly asks, expecting the worse. It is late, he is tired, his dear cousin has just given birth and Sven is now looking nonplussed.

“She’s…” Finally Stella’s husband speaks and shakily exhales and Torbjörn wants to strangle the man for keeping him on edge like this. “She’s the most precious thing! Oh, she’s so beautiful! Just… out of this world!”

He’s ready to crush the phone in his strong grip.

“Hey, you had me worried here! Don’t do that!” He barks, but there is barely any anger behind it.

A string of apologies follows and soon the two men are chuckling, the excitement dropping a bit.

Torbjörn has always been close to Stella, with her being the only child of his uncle. She is four years his elder, though it often seems like the opposite; when they’re together it’s always her that calls him ‘grandpa’. The day she left to study economics or some such in Switzerland Torbjörn drank himself senseless. Very impressive for a teenager, though not his smartest moment; his genius lies in engineering, not in the workings of the human body, as he had pointed out to the paramedic.

“Decided on a name yet?” 

“Oh, uh, yes.” An awkward pause.

“Please, tell me it won’t be Agnes. We have four generations of Agneses and this needs to stop!”

“Thank God you’re against that! No offense to your mother, but… you know.” He trails off, a smile still distinct in his voice. “It’s close though.”

“Hm?”

“Angela.” He sounds giddy, excited to announce his daughter’s name to the world. “Her name is Angela.”

“Angela.” Torbjörn repeats softly, his lips pulled in a gentle smile. He is so happy for Stella, she is going to be an excellent mother. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you! I’m… You’re the first we called, actually. Stella wanted you to tell you herself, but-”

“She’s resting.” Torbjörn finishes for him. He remembers that his uncle was deployed to commandeer a company at the Russian border and probably can’t be reached. His lovely wife passed some years prior. “Are your parents with you in the hospital?”

“They drove us here. My hands were shaking so badly that we had to ask them.”

Torbjörn can’t help but shake his head with a smile at the image of his cousin, heavy with child and entering labour, bossing around her panicking husband.

“Go back to your wife and kid. Give them my best.”

“I will, thanks. You should visit us soon!”

He doesn’t want to make any promises, but mumbles some sort of assertion anyway. Seeing Stella and her family would be a good break from the competitive suffocating hell the Ironclad Guild can be at times. It has been less than a year and he is already sick of having to keep constant watch, hiding his more sensitive work from some of his rather desperate colleagues who resort to stealing ideas in order to stay relevant.

After a short farewell he hangs up and finds Sven still eyeing him with a puzzled expression. Torbjörn says nothing in explanation. His family is his own business.

“Come, Sven,” he urges as he heads for the door. “We’re drinking tonight!”

“That was the plan from the start.” The other man catches up with a couple of wide strides. They both exit and code-lock the door before heading towards Jesper’s. “Is it good drinking or bad drinking?”

“Drinking’s always good!” Torbjörn booms happily and rubs at his stubble. He needs to shave, has needed to for about two weeks. “But yes, I’m celebrating.”

In the morning he has a splitting headache and his smile from the night before is gone. He can’t even remember how he got to his room. Though he does have a new turret design on his mind and he will put it to paper as soon as he can walk on two legs again. There and then he decides that he is never drinking with Sven ever again.

Later that day he calls his mother to deliver the joyous news and not long after that he receives a short video clip from the glowing new mother herself, holding her precious bundle and with her husband by her side, unable to keep his hands steady while recording.  

There’s work to do though; he has to submit his plans for the evac mech, play with the turret idea some more and finally drag himself to the ‘experts’ at the Robotics Section to help with their projects. He is not looking forward to the latter. Nevertheless he must admit that the complex schematics he has to tackle in order to help with the giant so called omnics are just the challenge he has been itching for.  


	2. Tragedy

2045

 

Nobody saw it coming, they say. Lies. Torbjörn warned anyone who would listen that it would happen eventually, though his only listeners had no power to influence the big players, much less Omnica Corp.

  _Humanity has to be tolerant, humanity needs to accept the other, and humanity should build a world for all._

Well, humanity just had its teeth kicked in by a metal foot, belonging to the same machines that some had tried to protect. In vain, it was all in vain. Thousands dead the first day and the numbers keep rising.

The worst of it all, Torbjörn thinks as he watches another report on one of the screens in the briefing room, is that he had a hand in building the most destructive of the omnics now laying waste to entire settlements. It hurts to see his ingenious designs and all his hard work, sweat and blood being twisted into doomsday horrors. But now he has a chance to turn the tables around.

“Alright, team! We had another successful operation, congratulations on everyone making it back alive.”

Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison are standing at the front, two perfect soldiers, powerful and intimidating. As per usual, Reyes’s face is set in a scowl, while Morrison is giving off reassuring confidence. They are the combat leaders, none of the others sure who in reality outranks the other. What does it matter anyway? They are just an experimental task force.

“Not everyone is in one piece, though.”

Torbjörn is pretty sure that in the end Ana Amari is the one who has the last word in terms of combat strategy. Why Egypt gave away their poster sniper for such a mad last-ditch effort to stop the Omnic Crisis, he can only guess. Morrison and Reyes are toys to the military – they are super soldiers that need to be tested in the harshest combat, face the strongest foes, so that some suits in a room far away can sign off on another batch of enhanced men and women. Not Ana, she is different. She is not great by design, but due her own skills. He respects that.

“Ana, Liao will be fine! Such a strong and brave warrior won’t be taken down so easily!”

If he doesn’t know any better, he’d think that Reinhardt Wilhelm isn’t capable of normal speech and can only communicate via shouting in his booming voice. If there was ever a man who could be called the opposite of Torbjörn, then that man would be Reinhardt. He is easily described as a giant, an enormous man grander than life, full of righteousness and a sense of unbending justice, the literal embodiment of what the German Crusaders Order stands for. A great and noble warrior who is the backbone of their small strike force. A good man. He and Torbjörn easily became fast friends, despite an initial rough start.

“Liao, unlike you, isn’t built like a siege machine, Wilhelm.”

And as for Torbjörn himself, he is here as a form of redemption. There is no way he could remain in the Ironclad Guild after he was part of the reason why hundreds died every day at the tireless omnic strikes. A day when he will work as a regular engineer again is impossible to imagine. The battlefield is his workbench now, war his inspiration. At least he is an expert at manufacturing weapons and armour; his team will get the best possible protection. So far, he hasn’t failed them.

The briefing doesn’t last long. They have a couple of days of downtime before they will be dispatched on another assignment. Nowadays one can just throw a dart at the world map and it will land in a war zone. Plains, mountains, forests, oceans – no stretch of land or sea is spared by the vicious warfare. More than a couple of areas are quarantined now behind fences and signs warning of nuclear fallout. If humanity survives, the road to recovery will be a steep and perilous one.

He drags himself to the tiny workshop, slash armoury, slash storage and makes a beeline for his turrets. These babies are one of his best creations: laughably easy to put together on the spot and packing a hell of a punch for any stupid tin can that dares to wander in their line of fire. But there is always room for improvement and he wants to try something new that he thought of during today’s mission.

An incoming call pulls him roughly out of his musings and he irritably taps his earpiece, silently praying that it is not Morrison to tell him that the schedule has been moved up.

The person on the other end is not Overwatch, they are a complete stranger. A brief introduction is made, followed by the reason of the call.

His soul goes numb, his mind grinds to a halt, he stops breathing and the official needs to repeat themselves again before asking if he is still there. With great effort he answers, like in a dream, and assures them that he will be on his way as soon as possible. It is as if the conversation drags on forever.

He feels that guilt will swallow him up whole, drown him and drag him to the deepest of the abyss. There is no time to grief though, he will do that on the plane.

A quick message to Morrison is all he leaves behind before he heads for the private airport, packing only the bare necessities he hastily gathered from his quarters.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t get to actually see the devastation at the Hungarian border, for as soon as the small aircraft lands, he is on his way to the Swiss embassy.

“Torbjörn Lindholm? We appreciate your expedience,” a tired, drained member of staff greets him in front of the reinforced gates and leads him inside. He imagines he doesn’t look any better, thoughts of remorse and sorrow keeping him from any form of rest.

“…-ors found her near the ruins of Tiszabecs, a small town that is… was on the border…” The young man struggles to stay professional, his hands fidgeting with a clasp of the bulletproof vest nearly everyone in the region is forced to wear these days. His English is strangely accented and Torbjörn has some trouble understanding everything. He tries to absorb all of the information.

“At first, they couldn’t tell what the girl was saying, until a man speaking some German recognized the dialect. As I said on the phone, she was brought to us a day ago and… She has barely spoken more than her name… We’re understaffed and our resident medic was called away…”

“I understand,” Torbjörn solemnly says. “And nothing about her parents? You have no idea where or when… when they…?”

The man shakes his head negative, sighing. “She’s barely responsive.”

They stop in front of a door, obviously someone’s office appropriated for the unhappy occasion.

Torbjörn draws a rough hand over his face. His machines caused all of this, surely this is some sort of divine punishment. He deserves the suffering, but damn it, his family doesn’t!

There’s a hesitation before he opens the door and he distracts himself with the uncomfortable shuffling of the man behind him. Does he know that one of those responsible for the Omnic Crisis is right in front of him?

“Mr Lindholm,” he hesitantly starts, “I’ve seen you on the news.”

 _Ah, so he does know. Here come the accusations_. He mentally braces himself.

“Overwatch will stop this, right?”

His breath hitches and he almost turns around to stare in surprise at the unexpected turn.

“It’s all over the media. Overwatch is turning the tide, is what’s on everyone’s lips.”

“That so?” Torbjörn manages to fake a lighter tone, but doesn’t trust himself to meet the expectant gaze he feels burning a hole in the back of his head. “Finally we’re getting the good rep we deserve! Don’t worry, there’s a lot to do, but we’re not called the best just for show!”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before he leaps out of the frying pan into the fire. He gently closes the door behind him and takes in the small office.

A desk is pushed to one side, the curtains are drawn, permitting only the bare minimum of the deceptive winter sun’s rays to shine through a tiny crack. There are blankets on a small out of place couch and a dried up potted plant in one of the corners, but no obvious sign of anybody present, besides him. What betrayed the other occupant was a soft sniffle and scraping against the floor.

Torbjörn hopes he doesn’t look the way he feels – torn by guilt, tired and older than his twenty-seven years, and just _dirty_. He supposes that a shower would have done him good, but he’d rushed to get here the moment the news of Stella’s death registered. Of course, no one has explicitly said ‘death’, however he knows what ‘she was found hurt and alone’ means. A mix of nervousness, sorrow and anger twists in him and he is at a loss how to deal with it, on top of…

No, he will be angry at Stella and her husband later, because who travels from Switzerland to Ukraine in the midst of war? He will wallow in sorrow later, because what kind of adult would he be if he cries in front of a traumatized child? His nervousness though can’t be easily dispelled. Nevertheless, he will soldier through it.

“Angela?” He calls out and listens intently for any form of acknowledgement. “Angela, it’s Torbjörn. I came to…”

_I came to take you away from this hell, but where I will take you, I don’t know…_

He clears his throat and tries again.

“I’m here to keep you safe. I promise I won’t hurt you.” He pauses. “I’ll come look for you now, okay? Don’t be afraid.”

His feet are heavy and clumsy and for once he feels like the room is too small for him. As it turns out, there aren’t many places where a seven-year-old can hide; a tiny form is huddled behind the couch.

Her thin arms are tightly clutching her knees, pulled up securely to her chest, her shoulders shaking with the unconsciously summoned strength born from fear. Messy, but surprisingly clean blonde hair frames what is visible of her pale face, but her eyes are what get to him. Glossy with tears, they are huge, and blue, and wild. She is terrified.

Torbjörn stops, frozen to his spot a few steps away. His concerned scowl deepens. Angela curls into a tighter ball, apparently trying to fold into herself and disappear into nothingness.

“Hey,” he tries again, this time careful to speak slower, “I’m not here to hurt you. Do you remember me? I’m Torbjörn.”

Of course she doesn’t remember him. Last time he saw her, she was not older than a year, still clinging silently to Stella for dear life. This time however she shakily says something, so quietly that he might have imagined it. A providence then hits him and he almost curses.

“You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”

No answer.

If she were an animal, she’d be growling or hissing by now, he thinks dejectedly. He decides that it would be best if he shows rather than tell that he means no harm and slumps to the ground, still careful not to startle her any further. His back now resting against the couch, he allows himself to heave a heavy sigh. And he starts to talk, in what he hopes is a soothing voice, for he is sure his face is scary enough.

Perhaps a child shouldn’t be burdened to listen of his past sins and dreams for the future. He tells her though, and much more. He speaks about her mother, how they used to play during the short summers, how much she looks like her, how broken-hearted he is he will never see her again. Then, he vents that Stella should have never presented his name as emergency contact, that it was stupid and selfish. But currently, with no living grandparents on either side, what choice does he have except to take her in? What choice does Angela have except to go with this stranger?

He tells her of Overwatch, assures her they will fix this mess and then no more children will lose their parents to war. He promises he will do all he can to keep her safe, take her away from this blasted country and damn Stella and her gullible husband for always wanting to help, always thinking about others first. He loved her like a sister and she does this to him, how dare she!

He pauses his rant, afraid that his voice is rising in a threatening manner. The girl is not to blame for his frustrations, he knows that. Self-consciously, he peeks at her. Despite being still tense, Angela appears to have lost to exhaustion and fallen asleep. Torbjörn silently watches her for a while before pulling out his phone and sending a couple of messages.

He waits for her to wake up.

Before they leave he reluctantly signs himself as her legal guardian.


	3. First Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Torbjörn still can't come to terms with what is happening and Brohardt comes to the rescue!

2045

 

In the end, it didn’t take much coercing. He found out that Angela can be quite cooperative, as long as she understands what is happening. Not that he manages to explain himself, per se, but she seems like she gets the gist of it from the younger man who sends them off. The only problem is she remains eerily quiet all the way from the embassy to the aircraft, barely looking up from her lap. At least it is a smooth ride and there are no cursed omnics in sight.

The flight to Sweden is much the same, with him stoic and patient, while she puts all her efforts in staying as still as humanly possible. He is relieved when she at least doesn’t refuse food and some juice.

Their transport reaches the outskirts of Gothenburg in no time, not long after the sun has set. Angela is much the same and Torbjörn can’t help but silently worry.

Agnes Lindholm, an elderly and kind woman, slightly taller than him (blast her), greets them warmly and hugs her only son before sending the girl a couple of steps behind him one of those smiles only mothers can pull off. She ushers them into his childhood home and takes the oversized coat from Angela’s slim shoulders; Torbjörn gave it to her in Hungary, since she barely had any clothes of her own.

A warm dinner awaits them and Torbjörn would have been happy to be back home at long last, if he wasn’t leaving in the morning. The war is bigger than any of them and he is needed at the front. His absence is already endangering the team.

His mother has outdone herself with the meal, but Angela barely touches any of it, hugging herself securely after only taking a few bites. Her eyes fill with tears and she hides behind the curtain of her uncombed hair, a muffled sniffle escaping her every now and then. His appetite forgotten, Torbjörn sets aside his utensils and stares helplessly at the table.

Agnes would be both blind and deaf – not to mention heartless – to ignore the situation, so she moves to the girl, all parental and caring, and everything Torbjörn wishes he could be, but cannot. She takes Angela away, leaving him alone to poke listlessly at the meatballs. During that time he receives at least two pings from Morrison, and one from Amari and Reinhardt each, all of which he chooses to ignore.

“Oh, quit moping, you big lug!” Agnes scolds him first thing as she descends the creaking staircase. He’ll have to fix it, he notes in the back of his mind. “Last thing the poor thing needs is a brooding troll scowling at her.”

He sputters in indignation. “Hey, I’m your son! It’s not my fault I’m not built as a mountain.”

“More like a small grumpy hill, you are.” Agnes doesn’t let up and fixes him with a chiding stare. “That’s not what I meant. Did you look at her like that the whole way here from Hungary?”

“Like what?” He asks defensively, leaning back and catches himself glowering.

His mother’s features soften a bit. “It’s not her fault you know.”

“Course I do.”

“Not yours either.”

“Only you can say that, I suppose.” He hates how defeated he sounds.

“I’m your mother, I can say whatever I want about my stupid son,” she argues back and that makes him smile. She mirrors him before speaking again. “Tell me what happened.”

Torbjörn isn’t sure where to start; he told her the bare minimum earlier that day, however he didn’t skim over the obvious fact that his cousin and her husband are now dead. Agnes is a strong woman, she has dealt with the loss of her own beloved and then her brother on the Russian front. She knows death, as does Torbjörn.

“The people from the Swiss embassy told me she was brought in two days ago, by some survivors from the border towns. As far as I know, she was hiding in some ruins, alone for who knows how long. She can’t understand a lot of Swedish, only Swiss-German and perhaps little bit of French.” Plenty for a child, he thinks privately. “And with all of her grandparents dead and no other living relatives, I was named legal guardian.”

“That’s fast,” Agnes notes with faint surprise. “Adoption used to be a much more complicated process.”

He grumbles, shifting in his seat and looking away. “It’s war, they want to get rid of smaller problems to focus on the bigger issues. Besides, everyone knows I’m Overwatch. Who’s going to stop me?”

“Ah, yes, Overwatch. I get to see you nowadays more on TV than in person.”

“We’re doing good. We’ll scrap every omnic out there.”

“I know you will… But you can’t blame an old woman for worrying.” She sets about to tidy up the dining table. “What are you going to do with her?”

The question that has been on his mind for the past day is finally brought up; no way to avoid it now.

“No idea. One thing is for sure – I can’t take her with me. It’s too risky, not to mention that we change locations constantly. I was hoping you’d take her in, for the time being.”

He doesn’t want or need the responsibility of taking care of a child, be it his cousin’s or not. A dull throb between his temples is hinting he should think this over again when he is better rested.

The cold dinner is put away and Agnes pulls out a chair across from him.

“Torby, I won’t mind looking after her. Retirement is too boring, but this is rather sudden.”

“I know, I know!” He pinches the bridge of his nose then rests an elbow on the white table cloth. “I can’t divulge much, but I will probably be back in two or three days. We’ll talk again then.”

Agnes is clearly not satisfied with how he is handling this. Honestly, what does she want him to do?

   

* * *

 

 

No matter how many times he promises he will stay safe, the danger he might perish during a mission is too real. He contemplates that as he lies behind his turret, a piece of shrapnel from a Siege Automaton stuck in his leg, slowly bleeding him out. Cover is just out of his reach; if he moves from his position, he’ll be shred to pieces by bullets.

The thought of a suicidal run into the enemy lines crosses his mind, though it would be a great stretch to call it a run. He is pretty sure he will barely hobble three steps before he is dead. His vision is getting blurry and his head spins.

A dramatic soul he is not, but at that moment he wishes that his surroundings could transform into something more inspiring than a gray urban background. Standing on a pile of busted omnics, screaming defiance and shooting molten projectiles paints a beautiful last stand indeed. But his gun lays jammed with faulty molten bolts next to him and he is no Nordic god who can lay waste to his foes with a hammer. Especially not with the one he wields.

There is however someone who can do exactly that and Torbjörn will later deny vehemently that he sheds a lone tear when he hears his battle cry. He will live another day.

 

* * *

 

In the infirmary at base Reinhardt goes out of his way to visit him and even sneaks in two cold beers.

“To you, my friend!”

Torbjörn eyes the cheap brand critically and raises a bushy brow.

“Are you trying to poison me?”

Reinhardt laughs and drops a huge palm on his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, not at all. “When you ascend to Valhalla, you’ll have the ale of the gods. Today you drink with the living!”

He gulps gratefully all of it in one go and brushes some off his carefully groomed, but currently singed beard. Some parenting figure he will be, drinking in the infirmary after nearly being killed one time too many.

“Say,” a thought illuminates him suddenly, “you’re German, right?”

“And proud of it. What gave it away? Was it my perfect hair?” Reinhardt combes his fingers through his thick mane, grinning from ear to ear. Torbjörn snorts and shakes his head.

“I have a little… uh, problem. It has to do with… hm. Lack of communication, let’s call it.” He hides his fidgeting by stroking his beard, which obviously gives Reinhardt the wrong idea, as his smile goes from boastful to sly.

“Troubles with a lady? You want my expert advice, correct?”

“What? No!”

“Come on, don’t be shy! I’m a hit with women of all ages!”

“Okay now, hold that thought! I don’t want to hear…”

_Actually…_

“Can I ask you a favour? We have the next few days on leave anyway.”

 

* * *

 

“How is she?” He asks from the door, limping past his mother to let Reinhardt in. It has been three days from his last visit.

Agnes balks at the sheer size of the man who somehow manages to squeeze through their front door without breaking it before she turns to her son, bewildered. Her attention seems to be divided between Torbjörn’s injury (which he may have forgotten to mention), the unexpected Crusader now reaching for her hand for a cavalier greeting, and actually answering the question. She somehow manages all three.

“The pleasure is all mine.” She smiles at Reinhardt, while her eyes promise Torbjörn he is not off the hook. “She’s much the same. Barely eats, has left the guest room around five times I’ve counted, only one of which I witnessed. Naturally, she hasn’t said more than a please and thank you, otherwise she keeps to herself. She hid when I had a doctor come over to check on her injuries. I tried to use a translator device, but…”

Torbjörn rests a comforting hand on his mother’s back when she trails off. It was wrong of him to entrust her with the girl; still, it is the better option, is his conviction.

Reinhardt clears his throat and sends him a confused look. When asked to come along and help he barely had any questions, though now it’s high time for an explanation. Torbjörn feels that a more practical approach would be better, so he wordlessly leads the other man upstairs.

It is the embassy all over again – sweaty palms, anxiousness for having to face another victim of a war of his own making, and emerging memories from his childhood of blue eyes and light-blonde hair. Reinhardt is a silent sentinel behind him. He knocks and lets himself in.

Much to his surprise, Angela isn’t hiding this time. Instead, she is sitting on the bed, an old-fashioned paper book lying opened in front of her. At first she doesn’t notice the door, her eyes intent on the words she can probably barely read and cannot hope to understand. For a child of seven she looks way too serious and grim.

The illusion is broken when she senses the intruders to her sanctuary and stiffens, jerkily snapping her gaze to the entrance. Gone is the determined stare, replaced by barely leashed panic. She hastily slams the book shut and crawls back until her back is stuck to the wall, palming at it frantically, as if looking for a way out. Not a sound escapes her.

Torbjörn once more has to play the patient little prince to her untamed fox. He attempts a friendly greeting and moves to sit in a sofa at the other side of the room; his leg is aching and despite the leaps in modern medicine he should still be resting. It doesn’t escape him how Angela notices his limp and then pretends to look away.

Reinhardt however is nowhere near as cautious as him, instead erupting in a cheerful hello, which makes the girl almost jump out of her skin. He laughs off her distress and says something else, now in elusive German. Torbjörn intently watches how the shock gradually melts into surprise and then, finally, comprehension.

A couple of minutes of one-sided conversation pass between the giant still standing in the doorway and the girl eyeing him with healthy suspicion. Abruptly, he cuts off mid-sentence and asks a question, to which he miraculously receives a nod after a few seconds of silence. Torbjörn looks at him astounded as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him, after which he goes straight for the bed. If he wasn’t injured, Torbjörn would be frantically jumping in his way to stop him. He watches in dumb wonder how Reinhardt settles at the foot of the bed, the poor piece of furniture screeching in protest under his impressive weight.

There is no fearful screaming, no thrashing, no attempts of flight, just a reasonable withdraw, but no experiments of folding space-time like when Torbjörn first met the girl. He is actually hurt.

Reinhardt, unfazed by the seething man in the sofa, continues to talk to his mute listener. At one instance calmer blue eyes dart to Torbjörn and then back to the silver-tongued German, followed by a timid shake of the head. This can go on no longer.

“What did you say about me?” Torbjörn grumpily demands.

“I asked her if she minds if you stay. You didn’t ask for permission to enter, you see.”

“Permission? This is my house!” He knows he speaks too soon and the ridiculousness of him arguing this point makes his face go red. Reinhardt answers with a laugh, damn him.

“This is a lady’s room, you should always ask! That is why you’re always so cross. If you have no tact with women, you won’t-”

“Fine, I’m sorry!” He isn’t sure if he is embarrassed or irritated now. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

“Uh-uh, friend. Calm down and tell her yourself.”

Torbjörn exhales through his nose like an enraged bull and reaches for that calm place deep inside his mind. It is nowhere to be found, but he tries anyway. He is well aware his scowl isn’t completely gone, his brows locked in a constant fight for dominance over the space separating them. His voice is a different matter.

“I am sorry,” he offers in German, in a sincere and mellow manner, looking straight at Angela. She swallows and nods, unsure and seeking reassurance from a chuckling Reinhardt, yet a bit more at ease nevertheless.

“Seems like your apology is accepted, my tiny friend!”

“I am not tiny!” Torbjörn bellows and in a single moment all his progress is undone.


	4. Moments, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bonding and a look at Torbjörn and Angela through the early ages of their father-daughter relationship. I will post a time stamp (plus in the previous chapters), as it may be confusing if you don't bother with memorizing the OW timeline.

(2045~2048)

 

In the end, she doesn’t tell them anything about the incident. Reinhardt manages to convince her that Agnes and Torbjörn mean her no harm and are here to protect her, be her new family. She doesn’t bother to hide how upset she is, even if she holds back her tears with a child’s admirable stubbornness. They hear her speak only a few times, hesitant and gentle.

Torbjörn is impressed by how effortlessly his friend succeeded to convince the girl to open up, be it only a little. It seems though that if she understands the reasons behind an event, she can try and accept it. That is a relief, since Torbjörn is terrible at deciphering feelings and has trouble in operating outside of the cut-and-dry logical realm of engineering. He can be creative with machines, not with people.

A tentative knock on the door signals that his mother has prepared a meal and will probably expect all of them downstairs. He tells Reinhardt as much and he in turn informs Angela. As with everything she has done so far, her response is tentative and wordless. She slides off the bed into a pair of huge fluffy slippers and only now does Torbjörn notice that an old T-shirt of his hangs on her shoulders, almost too big for her frame. A bathrobe tie is fastened around her waist to transform the garment into a makeshift dress.  

Once again it hits him how petite the girl actually is if _his_ clothes look so large on her; he can’t possibly be responsible for someone this young. Momentarily lost in his dread he is startled when Reinhardt urges him to follow them downstairs, Angela already waiting by the door.

During the meal the German coaxes a few words from Angela, who is thankfully slowly eating, her eyes glued to her overfilled plate. Agnes is relieved and grateful, offering seconds and thirds until there are no more dumplings with liver to go around. While the food is steadily disappearing, Torbjörn discusses with his mother future arrangements for Angela, since he can’t hop back to Gothenburg whenever he so wishes. Which he, to be completely fair, doesn’t.

A private tutor is considered until she has a handle on the language.  There is need of obtaining simple things like clothes and shoes, finding a suitable paediatrician (Angela reluctantly agrees to be seen by a doctor), have some of her things brought from Switzerland.  All the while the two Lindholms are conversing, Reinhardt is busy recounting memories and undoubtedly boasting shamelessly.

“What are you grinning about? Is health insurance funny?”

“Huh?” He turns to his mother, tearing his gaze from the pair.

“Never mind.” Agnes gives up on mundane details and grants him a knowing smile. “Your friend is a very enthusiastic story-teller. Do you know what tale he’s spinning that has Angela so enraptured?”

Torbjörn can’t get rid of the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at the sight of Angela staring with her lips parted at the wildly gesturing Crusader, who on his part mixes spectacular sound effects in his passionate narration, enjoying it as much as his audience is. An alarm goes off in Torbjörn’s head when he thinks he hears ‘Balderich’ and he abruptly stands up.

“Well, that’s enough for one night!” He loudly proclaims and looks pointedly at Reinhardt. The latter doesn’t seem to get his message.

“But I was getting to the good part!”

“Yes, yes, and she doesn’t need to hear it.” Torbjörn tries again to convince him, without having to mention omnics and battles. This time it works as his friend starts sheepishly rubbing his neck.

“I may have gotten a bit carried away, I apologize.”

An air of apprehension has settled over Angela once more. Torbjörn, desperate to put her at ease again, doesn’t let the silence linger.

“Reinhardt and I will leave tomorrow morning, but my mother will stay with you, okay?” He waits for a translation and a slow nod. “This is your home, so if you want something, ask. Now, I’ll send you some of your things, but is there anything you wish to have here? Like a favourite toy or a dress, or…”

Angela replies immediately, without waiting for the interpretation to finish. He doesn’t need Reinhardt to understand.     

“Books? Done. Anything else?”

She thinks about it, chewing on her lower lip, now unsure what to say after her request is granted so simply. In the span of a few seconds her thoughtful face twists to visibly upset and a hitched breath indicates she’s on the verge of crying. In impulsive bid to calm her down Torbjörn lunges forward without thinking and grasps her shoulders firmly with calloused hands.

Angela stiffens, perhaps as surprised as he is at the spontaneity. When he is kneeling in front of her they are exactly the same height, maybe even look equally frightened; two people very unsure of what is going on. Angela, he can’t help but think in that moment, is the spitting image of her mother, though he sees a soft gentleness that was absent in the unruly figure from his childhood.  

It is then that Torbjörn decides. He is an adult, he will make it _work_.

He starts with a smile.

Words are unnecessary, he realizes with warmth blossoming in his chest. A child needs kindness and a tender hug.

Thin arms wrap around his thick neck and he in turn envelops her small back and just holds her close. And for the first time thinks that they will be fine.

* * *

 Video calls between missions are frequent and they are Torbjörn’s new favourite pastime. Well, right after maintaining the armoury, because nothing can ever come close to the joy building and tinkering brings him.

“Is she behaving?”

_“Most of the time.”_ Agnes sighs heavily, though not unhappily _. “She stays in her room for the better part of the day, doesn’t talk unless spoken to, but tries to help with housework here and there...”_

He winces, aware that a good few of those well-intended efforts have ended in disaster.

“And her studies?”

The elderly man they have hired is a refugee from Germany, fluent both in Swedish and French. An old-school educator through and through, he promised to do his utmost best with the girl.

_“Ah, yes! Her tutor is singing her praises. Apparently you aren’t the only genius in the family! Languages aren’t a problem for her, as long as she gets practice and she is excellent at natural sciences, I am told. For a seven-year-old, at least. We’ll have to wait and see.”_

“That’s… very good news.” He hesitates. “Can I… talk to her?”

_“Of course, let me just…”_

Angela greets him with a shy wave, not directly meeting his eyes, but not completely avoiding them either.

“Hello.”

_“Hallo.”_

“How are you doing?”

_“Okay. Agnes is kind.”_

“Until you get her angry.” His muttered complaint is met with a blank stare. No matter, he’ll try that joke again in the future.

_“Torbjörn?”_

“Yeah?”

_“Is Reinhardt there?”_

“We are not together right _now_ , but he is here.”

She tries to hide her disappointment and he almost snickers.

“Listen, I’ll tell him you say hi. That okay?”

Angela bobs her head and a few strands get in her eyes. He’ll tell his mother to do something about that hair, it’s getting too long.

* * *

_“Torbjörn, look!”_

Children, even bright ones, get excited over the silliest things, he muses. Angela, with her hair pulled back in a long braid, is proudly sticking her tongue through the hole of a missing tooth. He was not as remotely cheerful as her when he had the same thing happen to him last time, though in his case it wasn’t due to natural causes. Though the chair had been _natural_ wood.

“Good for you? Uh… are you going to keep it?”

_“What?”_ She looks a mix between appalled and interested. _“Why?”_

“Hm. You put the tooth in water and in the morning it turns into a coin.” As he explains he feels increasingly stupid, especially with the look Angela is giving him.

_“Torbjörn,”_ she begins in what is doubtlessly a very sincere tone, _“that is superstition.”_

His brows draw together and an annoyed rumble rises in the back of his throat.

* * *

Ana catches him one night mid-call, but has the good grace to wait silently.

“Don’t you want to go to a public school?”

His answer is a pout and he swears the girl is learning how to play him like a fiddle, getting better with every other call or scarce visit.

“Angela…”

_“I can’t talk very well,”_ she looks to the side self-consciously, but he knows there must be more to it than that.

“That’s not true.” If there is one thing that he has learned how to do well, it is to force (or sometimes guilt) the truth out of her. Angela is a bad liar when called out. “Is it because you are better?”

_“Umm… Maybe? Yes?”_

“And?” His voice drops and she fidgets.

_“I… I don’t…”_ she trails off in an indistinguishable mumble and hugs herself. Torbjörn attempts a different approach.

“What about friends? Don’t you want friends?”

_“I have friends!”_ Her protest is not a second too late.

“Oh?”

_“I have you, and Agnes, and Reinhardt, and… Herr Prosch…”_

As always, this particular discussion was going nowhere. He conceded, not willing to push her into something she wasn’t comfortable with.

“Just think about it.”

_“Okay.”_

Not long after the screen flashes back to his projects and excerpts of mission reports. God, his shoulders are killing him and his recent injuries aren’t helping any.  

“You are such a mother hen.” Ana teases from the doorway of the workshop. He almost forgot she is still lurking there.

“How do you know? Last I checked you don’t speak Swedish.”

“For one, you never talk in that tone to any of us.”

“You are not nine-year-olds.”

She chuckles and shakes her head, her long hair flowing like rippling black water. Torbjörn now notices that her arm is in a sling. None of them have it easy, least of all Ana.

“Trust me, I _know_ that voice you’re using. I do it all the time, too.”

Well, this has now turned into a battle for honour!

“Fareeha is four, while Angela is older _and_ brilliant! You can’t possibly compare them!”

Ana narrows her eyes at him, making a primal part deep inside him _squirm_.

“I will pretend you didn’t mean that as an insult to my darling daughter. Anyway, it doesn’t matter if she is the next Hawking or if she single-handedly cures death someday, she will still be your kid.”

“She’s not my kid,” he is quick to retort with his scowl deepening. Ana raises a brow.

“Best you don’t let her hear that.”

* * *

  _“I swear, we are fine, Torbjörn!”_

“What are you going to eat?”

_“I’ll… make something…”_

Yes, she’s not even fooling _herself_ with that one.

“Don’t you dare go anywhere near the kitchen.”

_“I can at least make soup!”_ Angela crosses her arms and scrunches her nose, offended by his lack of faith.

“Only under adult supervision and I’m not budging.”

_“But Agnes is sleeping! I just gave her medication and she needs to rest for at least four hours before she has to eat something easily digestible. Like soup.”_

“Your soup won’t be in the realm of digestible, you household menace! Order take-out instead.”

If a ten-year-old can be seething with indignation, Angela is pulling it off excellently. Like everything she does these days, with the notable exception of housework.

_“We can’t!”_ Her childish anger fades quickly to uneasiness. _“It’s getting more dangerous to go out and most restaurants are closed now. We have to make-do with whatever rations we get.”_

Ah, the regime. It has come to his home country as well, the officials not wanting to risk civilians caught up in a surprise aerial strike or other kind of attack. No one can predict with hundred per-cent accuracy what those cursed omnics will do next. So now Angela and Agnes are not allowed to go out of the illusionary safety of the house, unless they have a legitimate reason to do so.

“Fine.” Torbjörn concedes and bids goodbye to at least five years of his life with the heavy sigh he lets out. He hopes there will be a house left, or at least that he won’t have to fill in holes in the wall this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion piece to this chapter, this time in Angela's PoV, will be up hopefully later today or tomorrow. Part I&II are meant to be read together, but I guess I just want to get at least one chapter out today.


	5. Moments, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here is Part II. Sorry it's shorter. Can't say it reflects the events of the previous chapter 100%, but it would be boring to retell the same episodes, I think.   
> Writing from a child's perspective took me more time (and research) than I'd care to admit. Especially since Angela is supposed to be kind of smarter than your average kid, but you can't have her sound like an adult. Very frustrating, but a nice challenge. Also, Torb has no idea how to act in front of a child. I tried combining sad and innocently funny, so I'd very much like to hear what you think!

(2045~2047)

 

The bed smells of pine wood. _Her_ bed didn’t smell of pine wood. The sheets are white. _Her_ sheets weren’t white, but soft blue and yellow, with little moons and stars. The walls are naked except for a single painting of trees, a lake, and a mountain that look like all other trees, lakes, and mountains. _Her_ walls were lined with shelves with paper books, toys, games, _photos_. This room is not _her_ room.

Yet, she is stuck here, never to return to her home, to her things, to her… parents. The big man – Reinhardt is his name – told her that this is her new home now. She knows nothing of this place, even if he has explained that they are in Sweden (mom’s country) and that she will live with Agnes. He called Torbjörn her guardian.

Agnes is a mom, but not her mom. The food she makes is tasty, like what a mom’s cooking should be, but it is not her mom’s cooking. No, her mom knew she doesn’t like tomato sauce, but Angela still ate it at dinner, too afraid to say otherwise. It is sitting heavy in her tummy now, keeping her awake. Her mind is restless and she tosses and turns until she decides that she must find out more about this house.

She gasps when her bare feet touch the cold floor in the corridor, a hand flying to her mouth in alarm. When nothing happens she carefully shuts the door and creeps along the wall in the darkness, the patches of light coming from the outside through the windows the only thing giving her away. The dark doesn’t scare her much anymore, she tells herself, because she has seen much, much scarier things. Staying quiet and hidden too is easier than before and besides, Agnes is probably sleeping. Nothing to worry about.

Thus begins her first night of exploration. The room next to where she sleeps is locked, while the one next to it is Agnes’s, a twin bed (like mom and dad’s) in the middle. The elderly woman is indeed unaware of her little adventure and Angela intends to keep it that way. She knows already where the bathroom is, so that is of no interest to her.

Only one more door on the second floor remains a mystery. It turns out to be that of a roomy closet, cluttered with things some broken, others old. She gropes for a switch on the wall. Her eyes water when the cramped room is illuminated and she eagerly blinks the blurriness away.

This, she thinks in awe, is a room of treasures. Beside the boring stuff like pots, tools, detergents, and other such, there were some that Angela has never seen before. A piece of old technology here, a broken holo-frame there, a plastic replica of the Eifel tower, boxes, boxes, and more boxes. What becomes her most important discovery is a flashlight, which is borrowed for her future expeditions.

However, as her courage runs out and sleep calls out to her, Angela decides with a yawn that she should return to bed. In her dreams she sees mom and dad, both of them speaking soothing words, which she cannot remember when she wakes up. But their screams she does remember. She cries.

* * *

The next night, appropriated flashlight in hand, she crawls down the staircase, her heart leaping every time there is a creak. Luckily Agnes is a heavy sleeper and her exploration of the lower floor can commence with no delay.

She has seen the dining area and some of the kitchen; nothing exciting there. The living room is a different story altogether. Her attention is instantly drawn to the stack of hologram albums. After a few uncertain pushes of random buttons the first disk-shaped device comes to bright life.

Angela sits cross-legged on the floor, flipping through the memories of Torbjörn and Agnes’s family. Some of the holos are ancient, dating more than _twenty years_ before she was born. Those she skims through quickly. The strangers in them mean little to her. Then, just before she presses her finger again to go to the next image, she notices a familiar face.

Her mom! With renewed eagerness she searches for more and more holos of her, until she finds the perfect one. An image from a wedding, the same as the framed picture they have back home on mom and dad’s night stand. They are holding hands, smiling, and look so real that Angela wants to touch them.

But when her fingers pass through their heads, she cannot stifle the whimper that escapes her. Another follows, and then another, and before she knows it she cannot see their faces anymore. She is afraid she is too loud and presses both palms to her mouth. When her hiccups and tears have stopped, she lets her hands drop and wipes them on her shirt’s sides.   

Angela ends up taking the album upstairs with her.

* * *

In a few days some of her clothes and things are delivered. She barely waits for the boxes to be left in the room before she fervently rips the lid of the nearest one open and starts rummaging through it. The first thing she pulls out is a big plush dog, with brown floppy ears and a fluffy tail. His name is Friedrich von Ziegler, or Fritz for short. After giving him the proper attention he deserves, she sits him next to her and they unpack the rest together.

Agnes sits on the foot of the pine-smelling bed and watches them. If Angela wanted to tell her to leave, she could do so – her mom had taught her that much. But Agnes has been kind and hasn’t done anything bad to her, so she is permitted to stay.

Some of her clothes – T-shirts, jeans, dresses, skirts, and such – still smell of flowers, like her wardrobe back home.

Is her house where she left it?

She bites her lip and sniffs, moving on to the next box. Inside are her books! Dad used to buy her old, paper books and she loved them all. Except for Heidi, because the beginning always made her sad and she never read past it. She decides she will try again. Maybe Fritz will like it.

* * *

Agnes talks to her often. Most of the time it is words she cannot understand, but as the days pass Angela slowly starts to listen more. Whenever she sits at the dining table doing the homework Herr Prosch has left her with, Agnes will be there. During study hours she will bake sweets or give her cocoa, which always results in a short break. Then, she will ask her things.

How she is, if she wants to go out with her in the afternoon, what she wants for lunch or dinner, if her homework is too hard and so on. Fine, not really, anything is all right, no, is what she usually answers. Still, Agnes keeps close at all times and sometimes she wants to run away or hide. It is not that she dislikes Agnes, not at all.

When Torbjörn surprises her one day with a visit early in the morning she feels oddly happy. At the door he shakes her hand, startling her. Angela blinks at their clasped hands and then at her ‘guardian’.

“Hello, little Angela.”

His moustache twitches up and Angela guesses he is trying a smile. She will have a go too.

“Hallo, little Torbjörn,” she returns brightly.

“Humph.” Opposite to what she was hoping for, he narrows his eyes and glowers, letting her go. “Brat.”

What? What did she do? He calls her like that _all the time._

 He steps past her and her confusion, heading straight for the living room to greet his mother. She trails behind quietly and returns to her abandoned practical experiment, which is smeared all over the bare dining table. If Torbjörn is here, this means that Agnes will prepare more food than usual and will need to use the table. Her project has to go, she reasons sadly.

“Oh, come on!”

Torbjörn’s irritated cry gives her pause and she looks up from her endeavour. He is leaning on the couch with one arm and is scrapping something off his foot with the other, a disgusted frown worsening Angela’s already growing guilt.

Oops.

“What is this?”

She looks at her toxic green hands, then at the toxic green sploshes on the table, and finally at Torbjörn’s toxic green sock.

“Green slime?” She says in a small voice without daring to meet his gaze. “Herr Prosch showed me how to make it yesterday and told me to try by myself.”

“And how did it get here,” he waves pointedly from his spot all the way to the other side of the spacious living room at Angela’s improvised laboratory, “from there?”

“Umm…” She folds her hands behind her back and carefully retreats behind the table, reaching for a cloth.

When she heard him at the door earlier, she had hurried to wash her hands and completely forgotten about the tiny accident. Her eyes betray her when she chances a lightning look at the ceiling. Unfortunately, Torbjörn notices.

“Angela!”

She winces and screws her eyes shut, surrendering to his wrath. A second, two, three pass before she peeks at him in hope that he has changed his mind and won’t get angry with her. If he gets mad will he kick her out?

Oh, no.

What was left of the slime on the ceiling (did she really make this much?) has fallen and is now dripping off the side of Torbjörn’s head, some of it sticking to his thick beard. Angela snorts with laughter and immediately clamps both of her sticky hands to her mouth.

A breathless moment passes as his face’s colour shifts between pink, red, then back to lighter pink. Is he okay?

Angela actually jumps and bumps into a chair when Torbjörn explodes in roaring laughter, which later dissolves into mirthful chuckling. Maybe luck is on her side today.

* * *

Angela doesn’t mind the rain, truly. She has been looking forward to going for a walk with Torbjörn near the river ever since he mentioned he would be coming back for the weekend. Long walks with mom and dad used to be her favourite. They would go to the park with the squirrels, or the streets along the river, and there was that one time when she wanted to run around the lake, but dad just laughed and told her they would go by car one day. That adventure never happened.

The television drones in the background, the news Torbjörn is watching lost on Angela. She is kicking her legs against the soft couch, hands busy with a puzzle ring she has found in the treasure trove.

Torbjörn fumes beside her. She looks up to the screen where men in yellow suits, like astronauts, are shown driving bulldozers and pushing mountains of garbage. The sky is dark.

“Why is the rain black?”

“What?”

“The rain. On the news. Why is it black? Isn’t it water?”

“It is.”

“But water has no colour!”

Torbjörn furrows his brows and doesn’t look at her. Did she make him angry?

“The rain is black because it’s dirty.”

“Who made it dirty?” She has never read about black rain, except in that one fairy tale.

“Some fucking idiots in a board room somewhere.”

She opens her mouth, then clamps it shut. Her eyes dart back to the television where the news lady keeps talking gibberish.

“How did they make black rain?”

Torbjörn sighs deeply and drags a hand over his face. “Three days ago they blew up an omnium. You know, where they make omnics? Anyway, the cloud from the explosion went into the sky and now the rain from the dirty clouds is black.”

Angela nods, but a new problem presents itself.

“Why did they want the rain to become black?”

_Now_ he turns towards her with that glare he has when he cannot answer her questions. Every time she wants to assure him it is fine that he doesn’t know and he could ask someone else. She is too nervous to do so.

Agnes saves her when she brings freshly baked cookies from the kitchen and sets them on the low table in front of the couch.

“What are you two talking about?”

Seeing that Torbjörn hates questions so much, Angela takes it upon herself to reply.

“Some fucking idiots blew up an omnium and made the rain black.”

Torbjörn doesn’t get any cookies that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, Friedrich von Ziegler is a real-life historical figure (minor, but still). Anyway, don't think too deeply about it.   
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Learning Compassion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Torb and little Angela make such a peculiar pair. Also, I know I'm horrible, but it gets better at the end.

(2050)

 

He is not on roster for the next three whole days, so naturally he leaves base as soon as Jack (it has become Jack recently) ends the latest mission debrief. With their private craft it is a short flight from Gibraltar to Sweden.

His good mood dissolves in the warm spring air when his concerned mother greets him, alone. No ‘hello’s or ‘how are you’s are exchanged, urgency replacing all pleasantries.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. I had her fetch the weekly rations, let her use your old bicycle…” Agnes brings her clenched hands to her chest in vain attempt to steady herself. “That was three hours ago, Torby. I can’t call the police yet, it’s too early, but I’m worried!”

“No use waiting around!” He drops his compact luggage by the door and turns to leave. “Where’s the delivery spot today?”

“Near the opera.” She forwards him the government issued message with the exact address, which changes on a three-day basis. “It’s not very far… I…”

“I got it,” he calls over his shoulder, already heading for his car. He grimaces at the Overwatch emblem on the front hood of the white two-person vehicle. Why they must flaunt the logo everywhere they go, he doesn’t fully understand. However now he has no choice but to ‘spread the love’ as Ana would say, if he wants to promptly reach his destination.

His hometown has become a desolate place with all of the populace currently either trapped at work, school or home. Public transport is a rare sight, as are cars that are not of the authorities. Sacrificing freedom for the sake of safety: how far his liberal country has fallen because of fear of the omnics. Because of his inventions.

The shelter with basic foodstuffs and other necessities set up in front of the opera has a small crowd in front of it. Torbjörn soon is shoving people aside to get to the front, receiving angered glares and a couple of violent threats. But Angela is nowhere to be seen, the hubbub caused by a petty scandal between wary citizens. Refusing to let desperation set in, he starts asking around about a girl ‘about yea high, speaks a bit funny, hair’s probably a mess, has a bicycle’.

The last bit jostles one of the officials’ memories. At least he has a general direction and sets off to continue his search on foot, calling out Angela’s name every now and then. The layout of the city is orderly and straight-forward, remaining mostly unchanged in the flow of time; there are not many alleys where a child can get lost, especially one as smart as her.

An hour of wandering passes, then two; no word from his mother, which means the girl hasn’t returned in his absence. The sun is hanging low above the horizon, threatening to sink under soon and make his task even tougher. A thought to pull a few strings and use satellite tracking crosses his frantic mind a few times, and only sheer stubbornness keeps him from actually doing it.

First, he sees the bicycle, toppled and left lying in a long patch of untrimmed spring grass along a lane in the park Angela had to pass through on her way back. He curses his short legs when he breaks out in a run. In the basket there are bags with potatoes, canned meat and vegetables, secured by straps so that they don’t fall out. But still no sign of Angela.

He spins in his spot, his shouts echoing through the park, drawing attention from the rare scuttling passer-by. No one lingers long enough to find out why the peculiar short hairy man is yelling like mad at nothing. As he pauses to take another deep breath, he hears a faint call from the direction of a single great oak tree.

“Angela?” Her name grates against his sore throat, as he squints at her supposed location.

“Torby!”

“I’m coming, stay where you are!”

Torbjörn finds her wide-eyed and huddled at the base of the tree, sitting between two thick roots. His eyes zero in on her bloodied right calf before he realizes that the collar of her once light purple shirt is smeared with red as well. He drops next to her, a million questions already at the tip of his tongue, but she quietly interrupts him.

“Torby, I’m so sorry. I’m okay.”

“You’re okay?!” His voice comes out louder and angrier than he intends, making Angela recoil slightly. Nevertheless, she hurriedly tries to explain.        

 “It’s not all mine. The blood.” She sniffs. “Just the leg.”

With effort she slowly lets her knees drop and reveals what she has been cradling in her lap. The sight of the bloody fur coat and the faint rising and falling indicating laboured breathing manages to clear up the picture somewhat. Still, Torbjörn can’t let go of his worry just like that.

“Angela, your leg… You’re hurt, we have to take you to a doctor.”

He is surprised at his level tone; his chest feels tight, as if iron bindings are clasped mercilessly around it, but his head is light with relief that _he has found her._ On her part, Angela doesn’t seem to pay much heed to her dire to the eye condition, because she completely misses his point.

“There were dogs, the ones without owners-”

“Strays.”

“Yes, strays. They chased it and I chased them, with the bike, but they caught it and then…” More sniffing. “They caught it and I got off, threw a few rocks. I didn’t hit them though!”

“Of course not,” he strokes her ruffled hair gently.

“B-but one of the smaller ones, there were three in all… a small one came after me and bit me.” She shudders and he hushes, only wanting to pick her up and rush her to the hospital. Eleven-year-old Angela is still small enough for him to carry with little to no effort. Instead, he forces himself to listen.

“Then it ran away?”

“Y-yes. But t-the kitty… I was too late. I didn’t want to…” Hiccupping and sniffing, Angela drops her eyes back to the unmoving animal in her lap. Tears flow freely down her cheeks and drip on top of crimson. “I didn’t want to… to l-let it d-di-… alone… I wa-wanted to… say s-sorry.”

Torbjörn slowly drops his hand to her back and rubs in soothing circles. His words are clipped, but sincere. “You were very brave. It understands. It’s alright.”

“I was too late,” Angela repeats between sobs. “I couldn’t h-help…”

In his time as a combat engineer Torbjörn has witnessed countless tragedies, nearly all of which were preceded or followed by a bloodbath. By all means, brutality between animals is natural, expected even, unlike the cruelty which fellow humans are capable of, despite of it being condemned by their civilization. On the battlefield and its aftermath however he has seen it all – from fellow soldiers torn to bits by enemy fire to quiet solitary deaths, either by people or omnics. Such sights have shaken him to the core, made him question his own humanity.

He can’t be absolutely sure, though he strongly suspects Angela also has hellish scenes of the Hungarian border burned in her mind’s eye. She knows cruelty, as well as tragedy. As logical beyond her years as she can mostly be, here she sits and cries inconsolably over the unfortunate death of a stray cat. If he were a better man, a better guardian, he would know a better way to help, to comfort. He is not.

All Torbjörn knows how to do is hold Angela until her tears run dry, until she accepts inevitability, until the body in her arms grows cold with the biting evening wind.

* * *

In the car, on the way back from the hospital, they drive in silence. That is, until Angela’s mature side gets the better of her. The wild day slowly shifts into normalcy.

“I am sorry I worried you and Agnes.”

Too emotionally drained to get back into it, Torbjörn cannot dredge more than a grunt. “Make nothing of it. She’ll get over it.”

Angela seems to accept his reassurance and lifts her head up to gaze at the bright stars (clearly visible due to the low-power policy).

Nowadays most of the electricity from the domestic power plants goes to the war effort. The magical night sky is about the only positive aspect of the act.

_Damned omnics._

“What will they do with it?”

Torbjörn frowns, debating whether it is wise to pick up that topic again so soon. The stench from his discarded in the back jacket – used to carry the animal’s corpse, because Angela starkly refused to just leave it in the park – prompts him to give an annoyed straight-forward reply.

“Probably burn it.”

“And then?”

“Uh… And then it’ll go to heaven.”  

“Torbjörn.” He braces himself, for he knows too well what follows when she adopts that tone. “Animals don’t go to heaven.”

Today, he gives up on growling back.

* * *

 

When the car pulls in and he helps Angela hobble inside the house, his mother is in jumping hysterics. The grip they have on each other is simultaneously tightened and he doesn’t know who is scrambling to hide behind whom. As a result, they both end up on the receiving end of a decent amount of threatening screeching, half of which he is sure Angela doesn’t get. He laments the unfairness until he remembers that his short message to his mother earlier certainly wasn’t worded in the most reassuring manner.

“‘We’re in the hospital, don’t worry’?!”

All right, maybe he deserves it a bit more than she does.

“What happened? Why were you even there?” They shrink back in the couch, hands still clasped in unspoken terror.

“Why are you covered in blood?!” Agnes gestures shakily at Angela’s torn jeans and the bandage around her lower leg, as well as her absolutely ruined shirt.

At which – to Torbjörn’s utmost astonishment – Angela plunges into a tirade detailing exactly what and why has been done to her in the hospital, going as far as to re-enact how she was bandaged and showing off the place she has received a shot. She stumbles over some more complicated words, but sounds more competent about it than is frankly normal. Much like her son, Agnes finds herself at a loss for words and deflates a bit.

“This isn’t over,” she promises them, now heading to the kitchen. “Angela, go shower and then we’ll eat.”

Angela dutifully nods, even though the elder woman can’t see it, and wobbles to her feet. Torbjörn’s hand lingers behind her, but he lets her stand on her own.

“Nice one, kid,” he whispers and twirls his moustache with a wink. She smiles faintly back.

Then Agnes’s voice drifts in from the kitchen.

“Be careful not to-”  

“Get the bandages wet, I know!” Angela calls back, tone too light-hearted in his opinion, before she steadily makes her way upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Angela seemed to act weird between line breaks, it's on purpose. She's a weird kid.  
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Reasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing major happens in this short update, just some small bits of character interaction, such as Torb confusion and another reason for Angela to grow to hate war. It'll get more interesting from next time, I promise.  
> As a side note, so much excitement around the new characters and lore! Gotta love it!

(2050)

 

Her eyes instantaneously brighten up when she sees them.

_“Reinhardt!”_

Torbjörn crosses his arms and leans back, making more room for Reinhardt to shove his stupid, grinning, huge face in front of the camera. Angela’s smile lights up the whole dingy workshop.

“Why can’t I ever get her to do that?” Torbjörn’s complaint is muffled by his ever-growing beard, which needs some expert trimming, especially after being singed on their latest stunt. Reinhardt, in a mythical display of subtlety, nudges him out of view, while still beaming at the girl.

“Hallo!”

From there on out for the next few minutes he can only get a couple of words from the fast-paced exchange between the German speakers. Both are enthusiastic to talk freely, without having to worry about pronunciation (Torbjörn is quite aware how much it bothers Angela) or offending someone by mistake (Reinhardt often botches up simple phrases and turns a normal conversation to an uncomfortable affair). In the bleak day-to-day the two manage to find happiness in the simplest of pleasures, the feeling infecting Torbjörn’s usually – as of the past ten years – grumpy disposition as well.

He is grateful to Reinhardt for the mood he is setting up, for the news Torbjörn has to deliver won’t be taken well without some kind of dampener. The time to bring the figurative hammer down comes when his friend trails off after a good roaring laugh.

“Angela,” Torbjörn clears his throat and shoves his way in front of the monitor. “Sorry to cut this short, but I’ve some things I want to tell you.”

Judging by the suspicious manner in which she settles back, she already knows the treat of talking to Reinhardt was only to placate her. Torbjörn hated how, much like him – though not due of his direct influence – she always expects the worst. Sadly, in most of cases they aren’t wrong.

“But first, how’s the leg?”

_“Fine.”_

“Does it still hurt?”

_“No.”_

“Good, that’s good. Listen, little angel,” he begins, almost giving up after seeing the sulking pout already on her lips. Oh, the endearment was a mistake, which he already regrets. Patronising her isn’t a smart move, even if she shouldn’t by all rights and means feel patronised at that tender age. “Uh, you know why I can visit only once a month at best, right?”

Angela nods. _“Yes. You fight the omnics, with Overwatch. I watch you sometimes on the news. You... worry Agnes.”_

“Right. You watch the news, so you know this war must end soon. The omnics have to be stopped before they can hurt more people.”

Suddenly, his carefully crafted delivery breaks, cogwheels and springs flying in all directions, shattered under the pressure of Angela’s dejection and he fumbles for words. He can’t figure a way to make this less unpleasant. Taking a deep breath, he resigns to the familiar approach of non-nonsense policy.

“Until the Omnic Crisis is over I won’t be able to visit anymore.”

Direct, simple, honest. Final.

The protest he expects doesn’t come. Instead, he is answered by silent acceptance, a brittle façade to the deep disappointment that is impossible to be truly hidden. He hears Reinhardt tactfully retreating from his working space, giving them uncomfortable privacy.

_“When will it end?”_ Angela murmurs, withdrawing further back.

Torbjörn shrugs. “Could be tomorrow, could be in five years. I don’t know.”

_“Oh.”_

“If I can help it, it will be sooner rather than later. And I can. Trust that I can.”

_“Okay.”_

“I’ll keep calling, of course. Whenever I can, like now. I just… won’t be home for this Christmas.”

_Or every other holiday in the next year,_ he thinks with grim realism. She still refuses to meet his gaze.

“I promise I’ll send you something. I’ll even ask Ana to help me pick this time, not like last year.” He lets a faint smile tug at his lips, memories of his comic failure at a Christmas present springing forth. “Remember last year? With the little reindeer?”

_“It set the curtains on fire.”_ She isn’t outwardly smiling, but he can almost hear it. It was enough for now.

“Hey,” he says louder, “look at me.”

Reluctant blue eyes meet his stern brown.

“Angela, I’m not abandoning you, you hear?”

She stiffens and he knows he has hit the nail on the head. So _that_ is where the problem is. But as much as he wants to, he cannot promise that he will return safely and she knows that all too well. Every child of war does.

“You sit tight and wait. It’ll be over before you know it and then I’ll take you back to Switzerland where you can have all the chocolate you can eat.”

_“Really? Promise?”_

Glad that the improvised bribery has worked he confidently grins, tugging at his moustache.

“I promise.”

He cannot promise, but he can lie. Maybe she will believe him.

* * *

It is a week before Christmas and as expected, the Overwatch team is stranded at the Russo-Chinese front, freezing their asses off while waiting for command to make up their damned minds on where exactly they want them deployed. There is little to do in the make-shift base they are occupying at the moment, everyone performing their small rituals prior to mission.

Reyes is stalking around like a hungry predator, already in full battle gear and itching to let loose. This time they will be trying a new strategy of his, which hopefully will cripple the resistance in their sector. Jack, on the other hand, appears completely calm and almost bored. His visor isn’t powered and his rifle is left on the designated weapon’s bench, shiny with newly installed modifications. Reinhardt, as ever difficult to ignore, is chatting with Liao over two large mugs of what here passes as coffee. Ana doesn’t bother with them, readjusting something on her scope, an air of tranquillity about her.

Torbjörn is doing what he always does. Hands never at rest, he is currently tinkering with his little, but urgent side project. It is delicate work and the penetrating cold is making his precision drop. On top of that, his mood is sour, because the soldiers on the front here know of him, of his role in creating the Titan omnics. No one will dare confront him openly, but their silent reproachful stares are enough to put him on edge.

“That,” Ana says, her attention still on her sniper rifle, “won’t make a dent in a toy robot, much less killer omnics.”

“Because it’s not meant for omnics.”

“What is its purpose then?”

The contraption fits nicely in his palm when he lifts it to display it proudly. The tiny turret bearing his trademark design pops a few shots and colourful confetti rain on Ana’s head. With a hearty laugh she pulls her beret off to shake off the vibrant scraps.

“An excellent party trick! But I doubt you made it to cheer up the soldiers.”

“Hmm.” His debate whether he should tell her is short-lived. “With everything going on, I forgot to send home presents for Christmas. I hope Angela likes it.”

“Oh,” realization dawns on Ana’s face. “Right, I was supposed to help with that. Sorry, I-”

“Yeah, it’s alright. We were all busy. What did you get Fareeha?”

“Nothing. My side never celebrated Christmas and she’s with her father for the holidays.” The joyous twinkle in her dark eyes dims and she turns back to tinkering.

There is something which he has itched to ask her lately and he guesses this will be the best opportunity he will have. They are both trapped, so it is now or never.

“Ana?” She hums softly. “Why did you decide to have a child?”

“Excuse me?”

Her sharp glare nails him to his spot, but he pushes on, careful to keep his voice low. He has a nagging suspicion that everyone is now keenly listening in on their conversation.

“We’re at war. You are soldier, know the risks. Why have a child now?”

Ana leans forward, her own tone dipping, though – he notes with relief – not in a menacing fashion. She is angry, but not enough to blow up on him in front of everyone.

“True, I _am_ a soldier. However, I’m also human, with my own feelings and desires. I chose to be a soldier and I chose to be a mother. Both are equally important to me. I have a child because I wanted that light in my life, as selfish as that may sound.”

“Not selfish, just too complicated.”

He is surprised at her unamused smirk. “Life doesn’t move by design. As dark lord Gabriel over there says, shit happens. I may not be here tomorrow, but I’ll know that I gave life to an amazing girl, helped to shape her as a person. That’s enough.”

Torbjörn doesn’t reply; he can’t. Instead, he returns to inspecting the tiny turret, silently going over the ambiguous answer Ana has given him. He still wonders.  

“Your present doesn’t look very festive,” she remarks after the quiet becomes awkward.   

He accepts the unspoken peace offering and puffs out his chest.

“I still have to paint it and attach the antlers!”  

“Antlers?! It’s a turret!”

“Pfeh, you don’t understand! It’s a _Christmas_ turret. Ooh, and it sings!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, my creative process will slow down for the next two weeks maybe.  
> Thank you kindly for reading!


	8. Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slow chapter, this time from Angela's PoV. A shift to the story is happening, finally. Not very happy with this one, but it's the best I have at the moment. I will probably edit this soon.  
> As an aside, did you read the Binary comic? It was so sweet! Also, there was an info dump by Michael Chu, which fits very nicely with my head-canon, so I'm currently a happy fanfic writer. Here's hoping for more content soon.

(2051)

 

It is her first time on a plane ever since Torbjörn picked her up from the embassy in Hungary. She tries not to remember, but sometimes the smallest things around yank her mind back to that fateful week when her old, carefree life was put to a brutal and bloody end. Nothing small today, though. The reminders are everywhere, as the world is roaring with taunting happiness and relief that the Omnic Crisis is finally over. All the loss and pain is forgotten in the euphoria that victory brings. _Her_ loss and pain feel diminished, unimportant in the face of the grand triumph of man over machine.   

As Angela drags her carry-on bag behind her, a storm of clashing emotions rages within her. She truly is relieved that the last army of merciless omnics has been brought down, that innocent people, like Agnes or Herr Prosch, or even other omnics will live in peace again. On the other hand, it is so very unfair.

Mother and father will never get to celebrate with her the end of the Crisis. She will not call to tell them to wait for her at the Zurich airport, eleven in the morning, holding a sign for her, because the crowd trickling off all the planes is horrendous and Angela already feels faint. Now she regrets refusing the offer by the kind flight attendant to be escorted to customs and beyond to meet whoever will receive her. Her parents, it should have been them waiting for her.

There are too many people and she wants to run back to the plane, back to Sweden, back to the house where she lives with Agnes, just the two of them. Alone, in her room, away from the young couple holding hands, the family of four that is habitually bickering by the conveyor belt, or the man arguing that he is travelling with not one, but two pieces of luggage, how dare they lose his precious cargo.

The instant she spots her small suitcase (mostly empty safe for a man’s suit and a simple dress), she snatches it away from the others and almost runs to the customs as fast as her legs will carry her, her ID at the ready. Here at least she doesn’t feel like a stuttering idiot, answering all the questions in her native tongue, albeit hurriedly.    

Finally, she is through but inside a crowd again; the lobby is full of men and women, of all ages and ethnicities, embracing, perhaps reunited after a long, sorrowful time apart. So many, many people, everywhere. Language, noise, smell, touch, all melt into a raging ocean of _overload_ and Angela screams for help inside her head, cold sweat breaking on her forehead. Then, she sees him – in the flesh, for the first time in nearly two years – and the world slows down, starts to make sense again.

Torbjörn is smiling and waving, bounding towards her, unceremoniously pushing aside anyone unlucky enough to be in his path.

“Angela!” 

In a breath all her grievances are forgotten. He is here instead of her parents, still there is no bitterness towards him. After all, it is Angela who insisted on coming to Zurich to attend the ceremony that honours the heroes of Overwatch for being the beacon of justice that vanquished the darkness.

* * *

The spot Torbjörn has reserved for her is right beside some serious, important-looking officials and she fidgets in her seat, afraid that her casual dress sticks out too much. As far as she can see – and she cannot see much, being surrounded by adults – she is the only child in attendance. The realization makes her shrink, reinforcing her conviction that someone undeserving like her shouldn’t be here after all.

Once again her salvation is presented in the face of Torbjörn who she spots standing stiffly on the podium, while the hymn of every country that contributed to the forming of Overwatch is played. If not her, then who will be here for him? Agnes is not well enough to travel, she has told her as much and Torbjörn has no spouse or other living family, except her.

Sunlight falling through the tall glass ceiling reflects off his medals; he doesn’t seem to pay mind to the accolades, preferring to scoff ahead impatiently. He is the only one openly demonstrating his displeasure, since all of his colleagues – Angela almost started bouncing in her spot when she saw Reinhardt – are standing ramrod straight and dignified. Later, she will make sure to tell Torbjörn that they all looked wonderful, larger than life (for she knows that his height bothers him to a degree). Today, they are all giants. They should stick together.

The last note fades into dignified silence and everyone in the audience sits down. Now she can observe her surroundings better and spots a few other children, here and there, fidgeting in their seats much like she is. Formal words in foreign languages fill the hall and she settles down and concentrates, her ears straining to pick up Torbjörn’s name in the speech. Her efforts falter when she notices Torbjörn covertly seeking her out and she hopes he sees her lack-lustre attempt at a smile all the way from the stage.

They are not too far, but there are so many people! How will he spot her and single her out from all of them? Oh, but he does notice her and his moustache twitches in return. She will focus on him, not on the uneasiness that crawls up her back just by being aware that she is surrounded by hundreds of attendees.

Two endless hours later she is nervously making her way to the side of the stage, because there is no force in the universe that will convince her to stay a second longer amongst strangers. Throwing away all semblance of self-respect, she bounces and waves her hand in an embarrassingly desperate rush to get Torbjörn’s attention. It is Reinhardt that sees her and strides to the edge of the stage. Before she can open her mouth to utter a greeting, he has kneeled and gripped her upper arms. Not a sound can make its way past her shock as he swings her up and lands her exactly next to Torbjörn.

“If it isn’t little Angela! Our tiny friend couldn’t keep you away from the world forever, I see!” He roars in laughter, one huge hand still on her shoulder, making her tilt a little bit to one side under the comforting weight.  

Torbjörn sputters and pulls her away from under the Crusader’s grasp like a rag doll. She stumbles and rights herself behind him, hiding her red face behind an overly-conscious effort to fix her white dress. Her smile doesn’t completely disappear though – if Torbjörn understood the jab, then that means he has been polishing his German, which she can hope is for her benefit.

“And who do we have here?”

In her mixture of embarrassment and happiness prompted by the warming discovery she doesn’t notice when the three of them are joined by other members of Overwatch. She can’t help jumping in her place, provoking kind amusement from the newcomers. The woman she recognizes as Ana (Torbjörn mentions her a lot) and the man with her is Jack Morrison.

Angela waits for the fear and anxiety.

They don’t come, at least not in full force. Somehow, these people, these terrifying warriors don’t scare her as she would expect. She hates violence, but they don’t seem violent. On the contrary, from up close, despite having won a great victory against unspeakable odds, they are far from the boasting, invincible godlike beings the media makes them out to be. And they are smiling at her.

Her fingers brush against Torbjörn’s arm, but she refuses the impulse to reach openly for him. She folds her hands behind her back and tries to return the gesture, as any words she wishes to say are stuck in her throat. The two seem to understand.

Every child dreams to meet their heroes in the flesh. It is not hard to imagine that she is currently the object of envy of every admirer cheering outside the ceremony hall. Still, she doesn’t embrace this opportunity with the fervour some might – she prefers to observe silently as Torbjörn and Reinhardt exchange sharp barbs with roguish grins; Ana Amari and Jack Morrison join in just as the last Overwatch agent (a man unfamiliar to her) slides beside his comrades. A different sort of family, she privately thinks as the Overwatch members are whisked away by dignitaries and friends, all eager to bask in their glory.

A gala awaits.

* * *

“Torby?”

“Hm?”

“What will happen now?”

He is thinking, his gaze far away. She can tell he isn’t following the planes on the runway, their take offs and landings perfectly regulated. The terminal looks oddly empty in the middle of the night.

“There’s still a lot of work to be done,” he says at long last. That she already knows. The sinking feeling of disappointment she has been dreading ever since the end of the ceremony finally settles in the bottom of her stomach, heavy and nauseating.

Angela takes a bite off her chocolate bar and contemplates the future while the treat melts in her mouth. Sweetness brings her pleasant clarity. Agnes would never allow her to eat chocolate this late. Torbjörn doesn’t mind giving her the freedom to indulge and he usually is more forgiving about other things as well. She likes the lack of pressure that comes with being left in his care, but she also knows that she is a burden.

Therefore, her next question, while logically sound, hurts more than she lets on.

“Where will you go next?”

“Next? We’re waiting to board a flight for back home, are we not?”

She pouts. Receiving a question as an answer is not something she is particularly fond of.

“I mean after that, when your break ends. What will you do?”

Torbjörn hums again and strokes his beard. It is a ridiculous habit, making him look like an old man, so she tells him so and promptly gets a growl in return.

“The world still needs Overwatch,” he says after that.

No it doesn’t!

“But the Crisis is over! You can come back now.”

“No.” He shakes his head, still watching the runways. “Everything positive you see now, Angela, will soon be forgotten. But the war won’t be. And as long as there are omnics, there will be unrest.”

“There will always be omnics. They aren’t to blame for conflict.”

Torbjörn visibly holds back a scathing reply to her remark. It was indeed meant as provocation on her part, since it is hardly the first time they have disagreed regarding the role of the omnics. He thinks her foolish and naïve for her friendly outlook towards them, which annoys and upsets her as much as it angers him. She hasn’t been a small child for quite some time. Unfortunately, he still fails to see that.

The sweetness of the last of the chocolate is no longer there to distract her. Her fingers fold and unfold the wrapper, until it becomes a deformed aluminium ball. 

“I’m an engineer. My job is to build and fix things. And now I’ll need to do a lot of building and fixing.”

“Is this…?”

She bites her tongue. Maybe it is best she doesn’t ask right now.

“Is this what?” Torbjörn turns to her, as if sensing her unease. She takes a deep breath.

“Is this because of what the news said, about the Titans and the Bastions?”

His expression hardens and his eyes narrow, causing Angela to flinch back in guilt for bringing up the loathed topic. They have never freely talked about Torbjörn’s role in the Crisis, neither of them willing to break the unspoken agreement. Nevertheless, it is time to make a tentative push. Torbjörn seems to agree.

“It’s a matter of responsibility.”

There is nothing she can say to that, unless she wants to sound selfish. If he feels guilty, little which she can say will be able to convince him otherwise. And guilt she understands.  

“I’ll make it work, don’t worry.”

She has heard this reassurance many times over and is yet to be left down. Perhaps the bold optimistic claims flashing on every screen and news outlet aren’t wrong. Letting herself hope for a dawn to a brighter tomorrow for her and her family may not be a mistake.

“I know,” she returns with conviction. “I’ll be helping too.”

War will never take from her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	9. Can't Be Taken Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a joke, I am indeed updating. Thanks for the patience.  
> Anyway, please forgive this chapter. Our protagonists will get better, eventually. I'm in a rush to get to the interesting parts, but I'm not sure how to tackle what comes directly before that. We'll see how it goes.

(2050)

 

Early morning. A cup of coffee and homemade breakfast are two of the comforts he missed the most during the Crisis. They still don’t have a terrible lot in terms of ingredients to work with, but it is still not difficult to put together some sandwiches with eggs, cheese, or marmalade. Angela has already halved the jar, slices of rye bread disappearing one after another.

“Did you keep her on a leash in Zurich?” Agnes jokingly asks as she brings her own cup of tea to the table.

Torbjörn shakes sheepishly his head and takes a sip.

“Honestly, the last few days are a blur. I can’t recall anything besides being given a medal and my feet and back aching during the gala.”

_Fucking gala took **forever**._

“Was it that long?” Agnes turned to his adoptee, as if remembering something. “And where were you during all that?”

Angela froze mid-chew.

“I sent her back to the hotel.” He also shifted his full attention to her. “Come to think of it, I found you in the lobby, not the room.”

She swallows slowly and takes her sweet time to have a long sip from her herb tea. Torbjörn can practically see the cogwheels of her bullshitting mechanism grinding inside her creative little head and simply waits to hear the brilliant result.

“I got bored watching reports and there was nothing interesting to read, so… I went to the lobby to… look around.”

That alibi is strangely believable, which instantly raises its level of suspiciousness. He narrows his eyes, already convinced that he will not like what comes next.

“And?”

“And nothing. I walked around for a bit and waited for you. Quietly.” She is faking nonchalance by smearing another slice of bread with a ridiculous amount of jam. Using his own knife, he snatches some off the top, provoking an actually offended “Hey!”

“That’s all?”

Perhaps his track record with ‘parenting’ Angela isn’t spotless, many of their interactions carried out through screens, but he knows that normally the girl can’t sit still for longer than ten minutes, unless she is engrossed in a book. And she just said there weren’t any at the hotel. It had been a _really_ long gala.

It takes the combined power of the Lindholms’ glare to crack her and force her to admit defeat with a sigh.

“I… was talking to someone.”

“Who was that someone?” Sometimes the girl gets the weirdest ideas and talking to strangers – with her abysmal lack of experience – can cause trouble.

“I… um…” Angela puts her food down and rests her hands on the table, as if bracing herself. “They were… an omnic…”

“What?!” His world goes red. “A sh-… stupid omnic?”

“They aren’t all bad!”

She reacts to his shouting in kind. He hasn’t heard her raise her voice in anger ever before, but now this anomaly seems trivial and irrelevant.

“Bad? No, they are far worse than _bad_. They are the machines that started the war!”

“Torby…” His mother puts her hand on his shoulder and he shakes it off irritably. He will not let Angela be fooled by the empty words of a tin can!

“Not all of them fought! Some were victims. A lot of them died, too.”

No way is he arguing morality concerning robots.

“They didn’t _die_ ,” he spat, “because they weren’t alive in the first place!”

“How can you say that? Have you ever bothered to talk to any omnic?”

Angela is standing. He realizes he is as well.

“Please, both of you, calm down!” Agnes begs from the side lines, her voice weakly bouncing off the thick cage of uncompromising antagonism they have trapped themselves in.

Torbjörn can’t let this go, the images of soldiers and innocents alike perishing under the onslaught of the omnic attacks flashing before his eyes. Treating those _things_ with any kind of leniency will only lead to another uprising. Properly teaching the children that simple truth can save the future he fought so hard to protect.

“Was I supposed to strike conversation while being shot at? While watching _thousands_ die because of a single line of corrupted code? The fucking omnics should never have been made!”

“Torbjörn!”

“That is very cruel,” Angela replies with a frown, her tone evening. She doesn’t stop there though. “I’ve talked to omnics, before everything. They were all kind, just like the one from yesterday.”

“For crying out loud! That is in the past. _You_ should know best what they’re capable of!”

Just as the words leave his mouth he realizes he has gone too far. Angela recoils, her innocent features twisting with sheer betrayal. She makes no effort to rebuke him, too intent on not letting tears roll down her angrily reddened cheeks.

“Torby.”

He should be alerted at the weakness in his mother’s call, but all he can think of is that he delivered the low blow of the century to a girl nearly three times younger than him. It is Angela who trusts him to be the responsible one, to be the adult, to be her _support_. So what if she is misguided? Damn his bloody temper!

All of his fire is snuffed out and he lowers his head, jaw gritting. He feels like the most despicable scum that has ever walked the planet. 

“Torby…”

“Agnes?”

The sudden panicked worry he hears from the opposite side of the table makes him snap back to reality. His mother is in her chair, arm still outstretched at him, while the other hovers over her chest.

“I… I can’t…”

No time to hesitate.

“Angela, call an ambulance!”

Agnes keeps opening her mouth, wheezing for air, her face going paler by the moment. Torbjörn kneels in front of her and puts his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to lean back. It isn’t helping, as she fights to speak, but can’t get a single word out.

He doesn’t notice when Angela runs back with some kind of medicine, which she all but forces down his mother’s throat. He speaks calming words, void promises that everything will be fine, not knowing who he is comforting. As the blaring of the sirens nears he picks Agnes up and makes for the door. Angela probably is not far behind, though he can’t tell.

The ambulance, an older model from before the Crisis, takes them to the city main hospital in only a few minutes, which to him might as well have been decades. Angela is gripping his hand the whole time.

At the hospital the paramedics rush Agnes straight into the emergency room, while a nurse firmly holds them off preventing them from following. Angela, small and nimble, wriggles past her and starts yelling something at the retreating doctors. He dully listens her struggle listing some kind of medicines, he presumes, and brokenly detailing what happened. She trips over in her frantic explanations, but it doesn’t matter, for she is dragged out unceremoniously by another nurse.

Torbjörn wraps an arm securely around her shoulders and urges her gently to the side. White floor, white walls, white ceiling all make his eyes burn painfully.

* * *

The waiting area is relatively quiet except for the occasional broken wails or relieved crying. A fog of unintelligible murmurs surrounds him and he wonders idly if anyone here recognizes the hero from the propaganda posters or the villain from a few years prior. It matters not. He can barely feel anything.

Angela is curled on the softly padded bench next to him, her face buried in his side. She still sniffles every now and then, otherwise not moving. Her two hands almost fit perfectly in his cold, scarred palm.

His eyes are dry. He still cannot believe it. Gone. Just like that. Not by the hand of another or because of war. No, he isn’t used to this sort of tragedy. When his father passed he was too young to remember clearly. This though? It will stick with him forever, he thinks.

_Time of death: 10:54._

“Angela,” he clears his dry throat, “do you want to go outside? Get some fresh air?”

She draws a shaky breath and pulls away slowly. Unsurprisingly her eyes are blood-shot from hours of heartbroken tears. He imagines he does not look any better. God, what is he going to do?

“I don’t want to go back.” Her anxious confession is raspy, hard to hear even over the muted activity around them. “Not without her.”

“Angela, she’s not…” He breaks off, unable to continue. Surely…

“I know! But if she’s not there… The house…”

Torbjörn knows perfectly well what she cannot bring herself to utter. The house is technically also his, but his presence there can be barely observed, save for some additions he has built in the kitchen and garage. It is, or rather was, his mother’s home and she can be felt in every room, every object. They will be nothing more than intruders. The memories are still raw.

“We don’t need to go back. We’ll…” He muses for a hushed moment, not himself sure what they can do. “We’ll take a walk near the river, feed some pigeons, get something to eat. Tonight we can stay at a hotel. Hm?”

To be honest with himself, he too has no desire to return to the same scene they left this morning.

“Okay,” she quietly agrees and slides her feet to the shined bright floor.   

* * *

With the regime lifted the citizens of Gothenburg are free to enjoy the cool evening in post-Crisis jubilation. Compared to just a week ago streets are packed with people out to celebrate. The mood is festive.

Angela has her gaze set a few paces in front of her, seemingly blind and deaf to the commotion around them. His own steps are heavy, as if he is dragged back by an invisible force. Exactly where it wants to drag him to, he isn’t sure.

This feels wrong.

“You’re not afraid of heights, right?” He suddenly asks and snaps Angela out of her sullen brooding.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good.”

His expedience and determination to haul them both out of the darkness of loss surprises him, but he doesn’t stop to think. A short ride on the transit network and an irritating wait for tickets later, they are standing at the entrance of the amusement park. Recently opened, it is naturally brimming with high-spirited cheer and excitement. 

“Careful not to get some in your hair,” he warns a dumbstruck Angela as he presents her with overpriced pink cotton candy. He picks a strand of the treat off his beard. For the first time in forever, he bitterly reflects, she looks delighted.

“What, never had any before?”

“Just not in a while.” She pinches off more than a mouthful and shoves it in her mouth. Mutely, she offers him some.

“I’m fine. You’ll need it to busy yourself while we queue.”

* * *

There is a serious risk of him falling asleep. The Ferris wheel is more sluggish than he remembers, but given his last ride was some good twenty years ago, maybe it is his memory betraying him. Though the crawl is worth it, as the tension steadily drains from Angela’s face and she begins to look her age once more.

“It’s very pretty from up here,” she whispers, palm on the glass of the cabin. Torbjörn is paying scarce attention to the view; he has seen it before.

“It is.”

_Puts things in perspective._

“Do you want to go back to Switzerland?”

Angela startles at the abrupt question and stares at him in mute shock.

“There’s talk – classified mind you, but I trust you – that Overwatch will get a brand new headquarters in Zurich,” he hurries to fill the unexpectedly heavy silence that followed his enquiry. “I’ll ask to be stationed there and we’ll get a place in the city.”

“Oh… Oh! I uh yeah, sure…” She licks her lips and shifts in her seat. “That sounds nice.”

Torbjörn frowns, as an unpleasant notion starts gnawing at the back of his head.  

“Wait. You didn’t think… I’d send you away?”

Angela flushes and drops her guilty gaze to her feet.

“For a bit,” comes her mumbled admission. “After… well. And you said you’ll return to Overwatch… I thought…”

“Angela, don’t be ridiculous! I promised I wouldn’t leave you, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a man of my word!”

“So,” she begins, hopefulness returning to her voice, “I’ll get to live with you?”

“Aye. If you wish to. We’ll share.”

She only bobs her head in excited affirmation and returns to observing the night scenery. The lights of the city shine in her eyes and Torbjörn is just glad they aren’t shrouded with sorrow anymore. Maybe now is an appropriate time to address what has been bothering him since earlier. What a long day it has been.

“Angela?”

“Mhm?”

“You were very brave today. You kept it together and acted like a real adult, handled the situation well.”

The praise brings back a ghost of the earlier sadness, but she doesn’t let it overwhelm her.

“Torby,” she gently says, “I’m sorry about Agnes.”

Hearing a person’s name, especially his mother’s, shouldn’t sting so awfully. From this moment on he will have no choice but to think of her as a beloved figure in his past, ripped away tragically by her inescapable condition.

“Me too.” He does his best to hold the sorrow back. “I owe you an apology though. For… this morning.”

“It’s fine.” She is too curt, obviously avoiding to think about their argument and what followed. Everything is a reminder, damn it.

“No, it’s not.” He tugs at his beard nervously. It has been a while since he has sincerely apologized to anyone. “It was a cruel thing to say.”

“I’m sorry too. For trying to hide things from you.”

This makes him chuckle.

“If you didn’t hide things, I’d be worried. That’s what girls your age are supposed to do.”

It is comforting he isn’t alone.

“Okay. Good to know.”

“Hey, don’t you get any ideas!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People deal with grief differently, but one thing I've noticed is that many tend to switch between emotions frantically in the wake of tragedy. Whether it's due to shock or hysteria, I'm not sure, as I'm no specialist. So that's the reason this chapter ended on a higher note, if you're wondering.  
> Thank you for reading!


	10. New Home, New Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What an awesome event we have right now at the Overwatch servers! I'm guilty of diving into that part of my Overwatch needs, instead of being productive here. Sorry!  
> Here is some coping by running from your problems (TM) on the character front and a bit more world building in general.

(2050)

 

A funeral, a healthy dose of mourning tears, and an exhausting wrangling session with his superiors later, both he and Angela are on a commercial flight inbound for Zurich for the second time in ten days. Nothing much has changed in the city at first glance – the international community is still in uproar, many diplomats and activists swarming the streets, even during the late hours.

Huge screen billboards flash brightly between news about relief efforts and other humanitarian messages. One which dampens Torbjörn’s mood further reads ‘Be Human, Show the Omnic Mercy’. Not two weeks have passed and the idiots have switched back to preaching tolerance and cooperation.

“The blood of the fallen is yet to dry on the streets and they want us to hug those robots?” He angrily looks away from the car’s window to the driver. “Makes me burn up inside.”

Reinhardt, solemn and thoughtful, gives an uncommitted shrug. He stares ahead, hands on the tiny wheel and eyes far off.

“You don’t agree?”

“I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to start loving omnics anytime soon either, but this kind of… propaganda is necessary, my friend.”

Torbjörn has to grudgingly agree. If negative sentiments escalate, they will be looking at another violent conflict in the matter weeks. Still, it hurts to witness the people he fought to protect extend a helping hand to the enemy. Omnics didn’t starve, didn’t lose parents or children.

“It won’t work. Only a small part of the civilized world will listen to those appeals. The rest will take it out on the omnics that weren’t terminated.”

“Indeed. This is the sad reality. But let us not speak of such grim matters in front of the little lady.”

Torbjörn snorts in light amusement. “First, she is no lady, if her ‘lady-like’ manners are anything to go by. And second, she doesn’t understand what we’re saying.”

“I understand,” pipes up Angela from the back seat, in a thick accent. Torbjörn whips around, mouth agape, while Reinhardt is eyeing her faintly surprised via the rear view mirror. She immediately blushes – red clearly visible despite the darkness outside – and quickly adds, “Only very little.”

“When the hell did you learn English?!”

He bites his tongue upon realizing the crudeness of his phrasing, but Angela doesn’t react to it.

“Ag- hm,” she hesitates, tugging slightly on her waist-long braid. “Agnes teach- taught me some. And the internet.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and speaks next in Swedish. “That is why you need friends.”

“What?” Angela indignantly gawked at him. “What does _that_ have to do with anything?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you have to go out more, find a hobby, be a kid, act your age.”

She pouts and narrows her eyes in retort. “And you have so many friends.”

“I do!”

“Yeah, who?”

“Well, for starters-” He cuts himself off and frowns. The little devil is baiting him. “I can see what you’re doing and it’s not going to work!”

“This time,” she smirks and he starts doubting that they will be able to exist under the same roof for extended periods of time, not to mention the next few years. The urban landscape, miraculously preserved from damage, zooms past them in blurry neon colours and soft yellow.

“Brat,” he grumbles, turning to face the road. Reinhardt is grinning beside him. “You didn’t have to drive us, you know.”

“Nonsense! And I so want to see the place that the brass decided to give you. How did you manage to convince them you needed an apartment off base?”

It is true that usually Overwatch personnel – up until that point consisting of a few communications and R&D officers plus the combat team – stays on base, in designated quarters. However, he couldn’t bring himself to drag Angela to such as of yet poor living conditions.

“I promised them a couple of my designs. Nothing too crucial, but they can’t know that,” he chuckles and pulls at his moustache, pleased. “Besides, I already have new ideas that will make the constructs and patents I surrendered obsolete in no time.”

“The big guys won’t be happy. But good job!”

“Damn right. I’m not trusting anyone with my blueprints ever again.”

The car takes a turn and comes to a halt.

“We’re here!”

Up on the seventh floor of a quite regular looking residence building, their new (only by name) apartment awaits them. Neither Torbjörn, nor Angela have a large number of possessions to carry over and it is certainly a relief that the place has come furnished, as the titular owner hadn’t thought about that at all before hopping on the plane.

They drop their suitcases by the door. It suddenly occurs to Torbjörn that this is his first actual apartment; in the Guild he lived with the other engineers in dorms, while in Overwatch he had nothing more than a bunk wherever they were stationed and more often than not slept in an armoury or a workshop.  

“Not bad,” he nods in appreciation as he circles the joint living and dining room. He immediately claims a spot for a workbench and moves to inspect the kitchen. Both the counters and appliances are older, but that matters little, as he doubts the space would be utilised for anything more than prepping a quick easy meal.

As if he will get the chance.

“Torby?” Angela’s voice reaches him from the other side of the apartment.

“Yeah?” He shouts back.

“Why are the blinds in the bedrooms made of steel?” He can hear confusion underlined with worry.

How paranoid exactly were the previous occupants? If omnics ever got to Zurich, steel blinds would be torn like wet tissues.

“Don’t think about it too much.”

He returns back to the main space, where Reinhardt has already made himself comfortable on the worn brown leather couch, beer in hand. Another one is open on a low table to the side, beckoning him.

“You’ve always had perfect timing with the drinks, friend. Do you always carry that foul swill around or do you buy it especially so you can torment me?” Torbjörn jokes, while clinking his bottle to Reinhardt’s.

“I have perfect timing with everything! Just ask my lady fans!” He shamelessly boasts, making the other man roll his eyes in exasperation.

“Ask them what?” Angela joins them, blinking innocently.

“Nothing,” Torbjörn hurries to deflect before the knight in shining armour with the numerous love conquests can corrupt her any further. “Picked a room?”

“Yes.” She points at the door she came through just then and beams. “It is big. I like it.”

He secretly hopes there are no hidden trapdoors or concealed weapons about the apartment. It will be a disaster if Angela accidentally finds a gun hidden somewhere, considering what had happened when she got her hands on a nail gun three years ago.

“Are you… celebrating?” She asks, eyeing their drinks curiously.

“We are! To new beginnings!”

The bottles clink together again. Reinhardt waves the girl closer.

“Want some?”

“What?!”

Angela shrugs. “Okay.”

“No! No, she _doesn’t_!”

Later, when they have moved the luggage to their respective rooms, Angela retreats for the night. Torbjörn sends her off with a lazy wave and walks his friend to the car parked in front of the building. The stark emblem of Overwatch has warded off any bots that would have stamped a fine a million times over on any other vehicle.

“Don’t get too homey now. We have a briefing first time in the morning.” Reinhardt climbs into the car, which despite being larger than what is by all means normal still has him hunching a bit.

“Not a green rookie, Wilhelm,” Torbjörn mock-frowns. “I’m not the one who showed up with only half their armour before deployment.”

“You oversleep one time,” Reinhardt shakes his head, fond memories returning. “That day we had a great battle!”

“Yea, we kicked tin can ass. Have your armour ready for inspection tomorrow. I can’t trust you with it for five seconds without you denting it.”

It is in the elevator later that he receives a surprise message from Ana.

‘ _Congrats on the new lodgings, **Torby**_ ,’ it reads. He will kill Reinhardt.

* * *

 

“For now, we will concentrate on relief operations.” Jack waves and the screen changes from a strategic map to a list of assignments.

It is quite a long list.

Three UN suits (brass that Torbjörn has yet to meet) are standing near the entrance of their shiny new conference room in the shiny new headquarters. The two men and one woman all in immaculate professional wear listen intently to every word coming out of Jack’s mouth, as if only waiting for him to say anything they didn’t put there. To his credit, the soldier pays them no attention while he gives out easy tasks to the new recruits.

Torbjörn is impressed how many people have enlisted in the span of mere weeks after the Crisis. Overwatch has grown considerably since its founding days, now the numbers of active agents reaching up to thirty. Considering that the new members are all exceptional individuals, albeit most of them pretty green, this is a huge improvement. Though the ovations and praises for the expanding Overwatch by the media, the UN, and various government leave a bitter taste.

Only after six agents have dealt the finishing blow, do those conniving bastards throw their full support behind them. Good soldiers died because the same ‘supporters’ hesitated before. What is the bloody point of this show? From its first days their Overwatch has been a combat operations team, not the peace-keeping force they are being reformed into. It looks good, to the public perhaps, but smells funny.

Jack keeps talking and Torbjörn continues not to listen, instead finding his colleagues a far more interesting subject of his observations.

Social interaction is generally his lowest tier skill, left to rust in disrepair during his climb to the top of the inventors’ world. He speaks his mind regardless of whether it is an appropriate situation or not, and oftentimes misses subtle silent cues that others seamlessly follow. Despite regularly arguing with Angela on the topic of the need of friends, it is nothing short of a miracle that he has any, given his penchant for being a loner. His shortcomings are no secret to anyone who has spoken to him for longer than five minutes, so people start assuming that he carries no interest towards relations.

That is the precise reason why no one bothers hiding around him, all too sure that he will just ignore them and their deeds. For the most part that is so. However, there is a certain level of glaring bluntness which is impossible to be unconsciously tuned out. The looks, winks and smiles Ana and Reinhardt keep – perhaps secretly by their standard – exchanging fall in the above category. Not a single brave soul from all of the ‘heroes’ gathered here dares to call them out.

Maybe it is by the virtue of being their friend that Torbjörn has had the opportunity to (unwillingly) witness their dancing around each other. That, and Reinhardt likes to brag.

Jack keeps talking and explaining and assigning missions… Why do all of them need to be present? They have coms, which as far as he is aware are working perfectly fine. All this sitting around briefings slows down productivity.

He pulls out one of his data pads with designs and flicks through several of his freshest ideas: defence grids for the HQ, mini drones for surveillance and sabotage, adjustments to armour for better functionality and protection. With the sentiment that the big war is finally over sinking in, he entertains the notion to dedicate some of his time to research into providing aid, not just arms and armour. A memo will do for now.

“…with senior agent Torbjörn Lindholm.”

The sound of his name jerks him out of his creative musings. Eager bright eyes of a young recruit meet his heavy and bored gaze. The troublesome wording of ‘senior agent’ prompts him to straighten in his seat and at least try for a reassuring nod. By the looks of it, it works.

Mission details are pinged to him the following second. The date of departure and duration are inopportune. Once more he feels thankful for Angela’s understanding nature. He hopes she will be fine on her own for a month. No, he actually hopes the apartment will be in one piece when he returns. On the bright side, his destination is not a battlefield, so communication back home can be daily and he will be back before Halloween.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Even minor feedback is welcome and appreciated. Anything you'd like to see?  
> From next chapter we'll be going back to innocently clad heavier topics.


	11. Don't Look Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the patience, kudos and comments!  
> I write this in sporadic bouts of inspiration, even though I have it pretty much lined-out. Hence, the erratic update schedule.  
> Anyway; enter early teenage/coming of age/facing the real world drama. This chapter is from Angela's PoV, as you can probably guess. It's going slow, but bear with me.   
> Enjoy!

(2051)

 

When Angela decided to attend the award ceremony at Zurich, the thought that she would be returning to her home country was strangely not at the forefront of her mind. She was going to a ceremony to see Torbjörn receive his well-deserved medal, then stay at a hotel with Torbjörn and return to Sweden with Torbjörn. The place where all of those activities would be carried out held little meaning to her and she realized with clarity where she was flying to only when she held her tickets. At any rate, Zurich was just a name at the time.

All of her sentiment regarding that fact however turned on its head the moment she set her foot there with the full knowledge that she would live there for the foreseeable future. Suppressed memories of simpler times started haunting her on the morning of her first day. For hours she was too afraid to leave her bed, clutching Fritz and curled in a tight ball of nerves. In the end it was a painfully rumbling stomach that coerced her to venture outside her new room. Torbjörn had left her simple breakfast and a note.

The same routine repeats itself for the next three or four days, she isn’t really sure. Treacherous anger towards Torbjörn slowly builds inside her along with misty apprehension, as they barely meet or talk for more than a few hours every night. But it is obvious he is tired and at least as frustrated as she is, so she hides her ugly feelings whenever they are together.

“Angela,” one day he starts, with a tone she fears will bring bad news, “have you thought about which school you’d like best?”

No, is the honest and fastest answer. Whether the school is prestigious, or famous, or rich, or private doesn’t matter to her. She doesn’t want to be alone among people, among strangers. So, she avoids thinking about it altogether.

“Whichever is closest.”

That is a safe bet. If her school is near their apartment, then she will not have to walk alone familiar streets, expecting ghosts to pop from behind every corner. Yesterday she finally braved the front door and made it two blocks down before sprinting back to safety. The small relief that they live in an unfamiliar neighbourhood is the sole grounding circumstance that keeps her from breaking down in tears every time she looks out the window. She hates it.     

“You sure? We can enroll you anywhere you want. You should get the best, you deserve it.”

_I don’t want to go anywhere._

“I’m sure.” She needs to add a convincing lie. “I’ll do my best regardless. I can study more on my own time.”

Maybe not much of a lie, but at the moment it tastes as such.

“Good to hear!” Torbjörn thankfully doesn’t pry into her reasoning. She feels dirty for abusing his trust like this. “How about that international school over here?”

His finger points out a building on the interactive city holo-map on top the table and a window with basic information pops out above it. A twenty-minute walk, private funding, relatively small number of students and staff; it is the best fit for Angela’s desired conditions. How she desperately hopes not to blow it on the first try.

“It’s acceptable.” Despite all her efforts to mask her unease, she cannot fake enthusiasm. However, Torbjörn is aware of her hesitation regarding public education, so that part of her minor deception is safe from scrutiny.

“Expensive too.” He frowns and pulls at his beard.

Damn, she hadn’t factored that problem.

“Um…”

“No worries! I’ll have to make sure they offer you what’s best, is all.”

“Of course,” she inwardly sighs with relief. Torbjörn chuckles with approval and the corners of his eyes crinkle with kind sincerity.

“I wish most of my colleagues were as reasonable and quick to decide stuff as you are. Work would be half the burden.”

The praise stings.

“Surely no one gives _senior agent Lindholm_ any trouble, yes?” She teases innocently, while wiping sweaty palms on her pleated skirt. He huffs, amused.

“I’d be happy to introduce them to my turret if they do!”

The roll of her eyes is no pretence as is her slight exasperation that Torbjörn always is quick to choose the violent ‘solution’ first. His mirth dies down and the mood shifts with nearly audible screeching.

“Angela.”

Oh, no. There's more, there's always more.

“I truly appreciate that you show so much understanding towards… well, this type of life.” He gestures widely at the living room, existing in a constant state of disarray, with data pads, tools, and books scattered everywhere.

In the short span of two weeks that they have inhabited the space it has turned into a homey chaotic sanctuary. Angela is unbothered by the pieces of clothing sometimes dragged by accident from a bedroom into the common room or by the Leaning Tower of Chinese takeout soaring at the corner of the kitchen counter. The unmistakable smell of burnt circuits and inescapable grease spreading from the engineer’s workbench has even become a comforting fragrance. This place looks nothing like her previous homes and that is perfectly fine by her. But it is clear Torbjörn is not entirely referring to their living arrangements.

“I know that a month can be very long, especially since you’ll be alone for most of it. Still, you know the drill.” He gives her a toothy reassuring grin that does little to ebb her secret fears. “Vid calls every day, a visitor’s card to HQ, and _no_ experimentation in the kitchen. I’ll call the school first thing tomorrow morning, talk about placement tests and we’ll get the ball rolling. You’ll see, with all the excitement, it’ll pass in the blink of an eye!”

Angela is not as sure, but for the sake of the trust he puts so readily on her, she will try.

* * *

She cannot do this.

When the placement tests proved to be ridiculously easy misdirected hope fed false confidence which backfired spectacularly. Her academic prowess was never under any doubt; it is her people skills that are laughably pathetic. She knows it and now the whole class does too.

It starts with a simple roll call during the very first period. A brightly lit classroom with a design mix of friendly and scholarly. One homeroom teacher for fourteen children of varying backgrounds. Angela should feel welcome here.

“Next…” Their teacher – a young woman wearing the school designated white uniform with light blue stylistic decorations – turns towards her and smiles invitingly. “Angela Lindholm, would you like to introduce yourself to the class?”

The entirety of the question registers with Angela as she is already rising and opening her mouth to deliver her meticulously practiced self-introduction. All her perfectly memorized lines fade away into indistinguishable squiggles on the white canvas in her head. She gulps audibly, acutely alert that everyone’s attention is on her.

Lindholm is a big name now, one on everyone’s lips for the past year, at least. Associated even slightly with the name of a hero should bring joy and undeserved pride, while for her it is not so. A ball of anxiety and shame twists at the bottom of her stomach.

The clean, polished, and, most importantly, bracingly cold desk serves as her support when her legs refuse to do their job properly. Her eyes dart across every nook and cranny of the room before fixing a spot just above the teacher’s shoulder. Everyone is looking.

“I’m…” She clears her throat after her meek first attempt. “It’s Angela Ziegler, actually.”

Not a famous name, but it is hers, her parents’. It carries her past, if only a fragment. The teacher – what was she called again? – does a couple of too quick to follow swipes on her data pad and her smile shifts to one of apology.

“I’m sorry, Angela.” She seems to hesitate, wanting to elaborate, to give a reason or explanation for her mistake, but thankfully does not. “Would you like to tell us something about yourself?”

At this point, what _can_ she tell them?

“I… I’m from Zurich,” she starts, voice quiet even to her own ears, “but I’ve lived in Sweden the last five years. And…”

What else can she say? There is not much that can be casually revealed about Angela Ziegler. No, Torbjörn is not her dad, because her dad is gone, along with mom; unburied and forgotten, as were countless other innocent victims of war. She is not Lindholm, because she still clings to a dead family and hazy memories. The only woman carrying the hero name Lindholm was Agnes and she too is no longer among the living. Ghosts are all she has. That, and a well-meaning guardian who barely knows her.

Nothing comes to mind. The awareness that all eyes in the room are fixed on her shaking frame seizes her tightly, preventing her from forming simple sentences. A couple of strangled vowels sneakily escape through her stupor.

“Okay, then Angela, what do you like to do? Do you have hobbies? Favourite foods?”

“Reading.”

It comes out of her mouth without a second thought, an automatic response. Books are more than a hobby, closer to an escape from the constant grim reminder that despite all defence efforts, despite Overwatch her world might end again, though this time permanently. What else was there to do when she was cooped up in the house, with only sparse opportunities to go fetch rations?

But the Crisis is come to an end and this pastime too appears to have lost its appeal, its purpose.

Unbidden, scenes of her wartime home bludgeon their way to the forefront of her thoughts. What she sees today in Zurich seems unreal, too good and peaceful, compared to the foreboding landscapes she has grown used to. Should she tell them how she spent the war? They all surely know of empty streets, abandoned playgrounds, tasteless rations. There were few small joys, though she can think of at least one.

“I like… chocolate, I guess?”

She remembers only the bland dishes from the previous three or four years – not really Agnes’s fault, more like the restricted supplies were to blame. What did her mom’s cooking even used to taste like? She cannot recall. Yes, chocolate is a safe bet; a rare treat, brought by Torbjörn on his occasional visits.

“That’s very sweet!”

Her teacher’s quip is followed by well-mannered chuckling by a couple of students. Angela’s cheeks burn.

“Welcome to our group! We’re all friends here, so don’t hesitate to ask for anything.”

The inside of her cheek hurts and she tries to blink away her unease. She blew it. When no one asks anything further from her, she slumps back into her seat. The feeling she is still being observed doesn’t leave her.  

For the rest of the day she is occupied by the oppressing realization that she has no idea how to start, much less participate in a normal conversation. Her peers move around as if in a directed performance, everyone having mastered the appropriate responses to simple questions Angela has never been asked or has simply forgotten.

All of this feels beyond her control, so she finds herself gradually becoming a mute spectator as the hours tick by.

* * *

 

On day ten, after a particularly disastrous surprise (at least to her) test, she finds him.

In a rare bout of courage and in a half-hearted attempt to clear her head by taking an unfamiliar and longer route back home she comes across the abnormal sight in the typically pristine Zurich. Carelessly dumped cardboard boxes are a rarity, yet few people pay them any mind. If Angela hadn’t been purposefully looking for a distraction she might not have noticed them herself.

Her steps drag to an uncertain halt and at first she wonders if she is imagining the scratching and shifting. When one of the boxes topples over she approaches the black nose poking out from under. It brushes against her overstretched hand and Angela tenses, suppressing the instinct to pull back.

That is the day she finds her first friend in Zurich.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Feel free to leave comments, suggestions, questions, requests, etc.


	12. Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Work and studies were hellishly busy the past month and I'm afraid all my time unwinding was spent grinding for anniversary loot boxes. As I said, updates will be sporadic, but I hope not too scarce.  
> Anyway, have some more world building (altering?) and a little bit of sweetness at the end.  
> Thank you for reading!

(2051)

 

His well-meaning younger colleague could do with a good, strong, incapacitating drink, Torbjörn muses while trying to ignore an endless tirade about the theoretical applications of fusion cores. He has heard the arguments so many times during his years in the guild, even though his design and building techniques utilize different components.

The pint in front of him sweats with what is left of his cold beer and he considers ordering another soon. While the bar is not full – his companion and him are two of the three people on the counter, with people lounging here and there at the tables – it will take some time for the single bar tender to deliver his order.

“Truly innovative, don’t you think so, agent Lindholm?”

Torbjörn sagely pulls at his beard, one elbow resting on the scratched cold counter, and agrees solemnly with whatever this youngster is so excited about. He hopes that the topic of their one-sided conversation remains unchanged. Some tactful prodding will not hurt to help ascertain that fact.

“Indeed, though I myself prefer to use methods that stand the test of time, if you know what I mean.”

There, this should do it.

“Oh, yes of course!” His young partner for this assignment bows his head slightly, giving him an awkward smile. He hasn’t touched his kid-sized glass of some weak swill, but his hand twitches nervously next to it. “I was just thinking more along the lines of new ways to…”

“I get where you’re coming from, kid,” Torbjörn interrupts and turns to fully face the scrawny young engineer. “You’re dreaming of a cleaner, peaceful world, where having lots of energy doesn’t mean people suffocating from dirty air or losing the planet’s last population of polar bears. But look around you. I, no, we were dispatched here for a reason.”

Assist with relief efforts, is what reads the primary mission objective. In an area so heavily hit by the fighting it is nothing short of a miracle that there are still functioning settlements; away from the big cities, but still on the path of the omnic invasion from the South to the North. In the aftermath of the war all that was left were barely standing buildings, weakened infrastructure, and tons upon tons of omnics for scrap.

“There’re barely any resources around,” Torbjörn continues quietly. “We used up most of that old crap people had lying around and omnic parts to build a make-shift power station. How do you suppose we’d make a fusion core from busted Bastion units and windmills?”

His assistant gapes a couple of times, but doesn’t blurt the first thing that comes to his mind, which earns him a slap-free night. For the moment.

“I thought about that a lot,” he admits uncertainly, in a similarly small voice. “What we’ve built now won’t be viable in a few years, months even. The land has been… levelled by all the fighting… Sun panels could surely-”

“Oh please,” Torbjörn groans and downs the last of his drink. “Climate’s shit right now, we can’t count on clear skies so soon. Use that head of yours, Overwatch didn’t recruit you, ‘cause you’re handy with a hammer. They have me for that.”

His companion shifts in his uncomfortable chair, unsure whether to laugh out of politeness or display restrained youthful indignity. Torbjörn cannot resist the chance to tease the newbie a bit further.

“If I wanted a pretty face around, I would’ve brought my-”

He pauses and stares through his now empty glass. No, that isn’t fair. There is much more to her than that.

Come to think of it, they haven’t spoken in three or four days. Last time he coaxed out a shy confession that she had made a new friend, but seeing how tight-lipped she was about it he decided not to push any further. Every aspect of their relationship past their meeting is coloured by pale hesitance and despite taking baby steps both sides err more often than not.   

With every passing day away from Switzerland the walls of his compartmentalized box of worry bulge slightly more, nearing the moment when he will have to pull out the figurative adhesive in order to keep it together. Fretting over something as small as leaving Angela alone for a month is uncharacteristic for him and this nagging anxiety resulting from involuntarily born worst-case-scenarios in his head is not helping in the least.

“Your what, sir?”

“Never mind.” He waves away the approaching bar tender and wordlessly transfers credits to the dented terminal sadly beeping on the counter. “It’s late and we have some more work to do before deployment is over. I’m heading back.”

With heavy steps he drags himself out to the street, his subordinate left in confusion behind at the run-down establishment.

* * *

 Unlike most people with a positive outlook on the world, Torbjörn hates when he is right. The simple reason being that, as a rule, he always expects the worse and his expectations being fulfilled typically spells disaster. First it was with the omnics, then with the God AIs, and now, during the last day of the mission, he receives a call from Angela’s school.

Though his fears that something has gone wrong are supported by the concerned tone of the homeroom teacher, the cause of the call manages to render him speechless for good ten seconds.

“Her grades are failing?” He incredulously asks, having recovered from the shocking news.

“We avoid assigning _grades_ to students, Mr. Lindholm. As I said, her performance in class leaves much to be desired.” The teacher continues and Torbjörn wonders if an evil organization has swapped his Angela with a clone. “She may have to take the entry exams again, as proof that there was no cheating the first time around.”

Yes, definitely a clone. Only logical explanation.

“No, no. You sure you mean Angela _Ziegler_?” He argues, already opening and scrolling through old records from Angela’s private tutor which he keeps archived in his personal files.

“I understand your confusion, Mr. Lindholm. We will continue to work with Angela, but I’d like to request you look into this… matter.” The concerned sigh from the other end stops the protest bubbling in his throat. “She is alienated enough as it is, I’m afraid that any further negative development will be detrimental.”

He struggles to overlay the profile the teacher has provided with the actual memories he has of Angela and her behaviour, but the two images just do not fit. The girl has never intentionally hidden her brilliance, constantly striving for new knowledge. Her room back in Sweden was cluttered with both paperback books and numerous scratched, overused data pads Torbjörn used to snatch from bases and send back home.

“I see.”   

“If you need any professional help-”

“No, I’ve got it. Thank you.”

* * *

 One of the additional tasks the two engineers had to perform during their mission was to record the new Orca transport’s data and submit it for further review. Torbjörn leaves that tedious work to his direct subordinate, while he goes through the reports on the rebuilt power station of Scrap Town 25, as he has dubbed it. At least, that is the number of settlements in central, more scarcely populated Europe, he has counted so far that fit the label.

Most of the files on population numbers or food resources are still being handled on the spot by a humanitarian organization, with which they had a joint contract in order to carry out relief efforts with less trouble. Overwatch, in its core, remains a body better suited for military operations. That does not mean he has no copies of the records of dislocated people, or soldiers and civilians from the region that are either MIA or KIA. He prepares those to be handed over together with his own, once they land and go to Morrison for debriefing.

The Orca shakily touches down in the newly outfitted hanger bay, still a good walk away from the administrative part of the base. Before they depart the small hitch is noted and catalogued. Even though he is not the only one responsible for the vehicle’s maintenance, Torbjörn still is the head engineer and no sloppiness will be allowed as long as he holds the position.

No welcoming party is waiting for them, just unfamiliar technicians and workers smartly dressed in spanking new uniforms, scuttling around three Orcas, one of which has dark scorch marks on its hull. Their equipment still needs a lot of work, even with the resources the UN is practically pouring over their newly formed R&D department. Money cannot train capable personnel, but most of the Overwatch recruits were people raised on the Crisis battlefield, one way or the other.

Without a word he sets off towards the Strike Commander’s office, his younger colleague scrambling after him, not before exchanging a few rushed words with one of the technicians. Let him handle it, Torbjörn has had enough people interaction for the time being. All he wants to do is tell Morrison to fuck off and not bother him with _protocol_ , then head home.

No knocking or greetings are involved when he makes his way into Jack’s meticulously clean and orderly office. The Strike Commander eyes him sternly, while he continues to speak with whomever is on the line. He has also yet to change from mission gear, apparently back from a short stint himself. Torbjörn doesn’t bother to listen in on his conversation, instead dumping the info pads on the desk. The other engineer slowly follows his example before taking a wide stride backwards.

“No, Chairman, there was _no_ other way to secure the premise, as the substance in the barrels proved too volatile-”

_“We lost our only properly working turbine in that **distraction** of yours!” _

Torbjörn sighs. He really doesn’t want to know.

When it becomes apparent – both by the minutes ticking by and by Jack’s frustrated expression – that this conversation won’t be ending any time soon, he decides to take his leave. The Strike Commander can be all disciplinary later. He snaps a fast (perhaps sloppy, but how could he know?) salute and dismisses himself.

The way from Operations back to the Armoury is quiet, most of the other agents still out of the country. He laments there won’t be a post-mission drink with Reinhardt this time around, as his friend is supposed to be away until tomorrow. Maybe there is somebody he knows in the lounge? As much as he hates engaging in pointless social banter, he secretly misses the tight camaraderie the team had during the Crisis. He changes his course, his steps eagerly taking him to a different part of the base.

He freezes in front of the transparent lounge door, hand hovering over the touch panel. The expected sight of agents sprawled on couches and playing cards is replaced by a sweet scene, not rightfully belonging in a military base.

Fareeha has her arms draped around Ana’s neck from behind, while the smiling Second in Command is sipping tea on the couch. The younger Amari seems equal parts excited and nervous, as she incessantly bombarding the other occupant of the room with her innocent and undoubtedly enthusiastic questions. The latter however cannot seem more politely ill at ease, body ready to bolt, but head turned towards mother and daughter.

So Angela does make use of the pass he secured for her. Did she come all the way here to welcome him back? Isn’t she supposed to be at school right now? The talk he had with her teacher replays on double speed, with words like ‘poor performance’, ‘negative development’ and ‘alienated’ resounding loudly above the quick flow. His irritation spikes for a brief second before he remembers he should not just march in and demand an explanation about why she is skipping classes by coming to hang out at a military base.

He watches the muffled one-sided conversation for a little while longer, while his temper is shoved in the backseat and his calmer side makes itself comfortable behind the steering wheel. Fareeha has yet to get down from the couch or out from behind her mother, though she is gradually sliding towards the other girl. On the other end, Angela is gripping with one hand the hem of her shirt – they need to buy her new clothes he notes – and trying very hard to keep up with the constant flow of what are most likely topics far away from what she usually occupies herself with. And Ana is revelling in the whole comical situation, until she spots him and waves him inside.

“Torbjörn! Welcome back,” she inclines her cup his way and smiles. “You’re right on time. Mission went well?”

“Without a hitch,” he returns a friendly gesture. “Is this my welcoming committee?”

Before his joking question completely leaves his mouth Angela is already on her feet and slams into him. The hug catches him off-guard.

“Hello to you too,” he awkwardly hugs back. “Miss me that much?”

Angela pulls away grinning, her brows drawn in a mock frown. “No.”

“Then I guess I can leave you to Fareeha?”

“Let’s go home!” Angela manages to squeak over her embarrassed panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Fareeha made an appearance! She will have a bigger role a few chapters later, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.  
> Next time we'll have some more angst, because there wasn't enough here.  
> Suggestions and opinions are always welcome.


End file.
